The Yellow Letter
by wolfandthelion
Summary: AU/Parody of the Post-Reichenbach meet between Sherlock and John. Sherlock decides to expose himself to John, but does it so that only John can be the one to see him alive again. Is it a good idea? And does John think it's all just a big joke?
1. Chapter 1

John left another note on his hollow grave, another note with words that were never spoken during the time he was still "alive", so to speak. John had written many notes over the past 3 years and Sherlock had read them all. Yes he should know better than to grab those heart-felt letters from the top of his grave, but he had to. He needed to know how John felt and what they left unsaid between them. Sherlock wasn't a man for emotions, he never was, they were a waste of time and completely pointless but when it came down to John his heart (well rather the nerve impulses in his brain and chemical reactions that occurred) broke and he welled up with feelings which he preferably pushed away.

Lying on the hard, cold sofa in his some-what tiny and cramped apartment he turned his head to the right to see the hundreds of letters John had left on his grave. All of them opened and wrinkled from being read over and over again, all piled up on his old, creaky coffee table, on the unkept dusty floor and on a rocking chair which he never used for the noise would disrupt his thinking processes. Sherlock sighed, and returned to his usual thinking position: fingers together held under his chin.

'Maybe by taking the letters' Sherlock thought, 'John might get the hint that I'm still very much alive.'

Judging by the content of John's letters, he had always been wondering where his letters went off too, but never went into any deep questions. He usually brushed it off. But throughout all that he hadn't put much stock into the idea that Sherlock was still alive, even though he wished it desperately. Sherlock had been lying on that couch for 2 days straight (as he always would do when thinking about a case) but this time he was thinking about John, and about all the letters. About a week before-hand John almost saw Sherlock buying milk in the near-by store, what a sight that could have been for John; Sherlock finally buying milk. It almost had been a pretty little sight for him. What was John even doing in his near-by store?! Sherlock had fumed over that for a couple of days, but he wasn't only mad at John for being there, he was also mad at himself for having been so careless about him being found out, exposed. He knew John had almost seen him because of the way that he glanced around the area after he had caught sight of him, and even tried pursuing him in the store. Luckily Sherlock was quick witted as always and managed to escape John. It was painful having to avoid John in such a manner but it had to be done. For the good of John. Sherlock remembered the way John had looked; he seemed happy yet sad at the same time, especially after having caught a glimpse of Sherlock. Sherlock knew that John wasn't as happy as he could be: his PTSD had returned shortly after the fall, the tremors took hold of him on occasion and his psychomatic limp had rendered its head to him again. Sherlock needn't spy nor observe John in order to know all of this. He hardly knew anything about John's life apart from what he wrote in his letters, Sherlock wanted to respect John's privacy as well as not be caught doing something like following him around on the streets. From all his letters he knew one important thing: John was to be married. All he knew of the woman was the fact that he loved her dearly, and that it was about time he was to be married to someone. He knew John was happy about the engagement but he seemed bothered by something that was holding back his potential happiness. He could tell this by the tone of his letters, the way his handwriting was somewhat sloppy and slightly unkept and how the letters were drooping rather than staying more upright like they normally do when he is a very happy man; Sherlock deducted (and deducted quite rightly) that even though John was in love with this woman, one thing held him back and there was only one way to help him but it meant risking himself. John was always important to Sherlock, even though he never admitted it. He wanted John to be happy, truly happy. And the only way he could be would be by doing the one thing he had been avoiding for 3 years; exposing himself. Part of Sherlock knew that he would also want to do this for himself, reunite him with someone he considered to be his best and closest friend and in all honesty, his only friend.

Sherlock pondered on the idea for several weeks before he came to a decision; he would expose himself. He needed to; it was driving him mad knowing the one person he cared most about was there without him, also feeling lost without him. Sherlock knew he needed it more than John, so it had to be done. But how on earth would he go about doing it?

Clutching his letter, John walked (well, rather limped than walked) to Sherlock's grave. He hadn't written a letter in weeks, and even though he knew Sherlock wouldn't read them, or rather couldn't read them, he still felt the need to "inform" Sherlock on his life and to find a way to tell him things he should have told him when Sherlock was alive. He felt like he was nuts sometimes, writing letters to a dead man, but his shrink said it could help release his bottled-up feelings and help release some stress and tension from his already stressed mind.

Even though no one read the letters (or so he thought so), every time he would leave his letter on the grave he would return to the grave to find it missing. At first he thought it might be the wind, so he placed rocks on top of his letters, even so, when he would return he would find the rock thrown off to the side and the letter gone. After this happened for the first few times, he became angry, and finally stomped off to the manager's office within the graveyard and confronted him about stealing letters and what not off graves. He was clearly told, after a quite serious row with several members of staff, that they have never, and shall never take anything off graves. John saw no deceit in what they told, and became one very confused man for some months. He eventually thought that some homeless person is stealing them in order to make a fire during the chilly nights. At one point he thought that maybe Sherlock was the on taking them, that he was still alive and walking around London solving cases and helping people (even though he couldn't care less about the people he helped, just about the curiosity of the cases) and not ceasing to amaze people with his deduction skills. For a small amount of time, he thought that maybe Sherlock _was_ reading his letters, but he quickly dismissed the idea with a laugh; Sherlock reading heart-felt letters? Ha, Seemed more amusing to John rather than true. Soon enough he gave up wondering, after all he was no Sherlock Holmes who would be able to come up with an answer by looking at the shift of the dirt or where the rock was thrown or some bloody obvious yet completely hidden thing like that.

Breathing out heavily John approached the grave. No matter how many times he did it, it hurt just as much as it did the first time he approached it almost 3 years ago. He could never look straight at the gravestone without tearing up, the man who meant so much to him, now lying in the cold, icy ground of London with just a simple black, marble headstone to show who lay there.

"You deserved so much more." He says painfully, nearly choking while trying to hold back the wave of tears that wanted to flood his eyes.

Upon arriving at the grave, he sees something quite odd lying on top of the headstone; a yellow tinted letter. Odd, John thought. He was sure he didn't place his last letter there, and he was even surer that his letters don't even look like that. His letters were always a clean, white colour but this letter had a very obvious yellow tint to it, like it had been lying around in some dusty drawer for years before someone decided to finally use it. Wearily, John looks around the graveyard, but to him it appears to be completely still. All he hears is the wind rustling the leaves in the trees, and the sound of his heart pounding loudly in his chest.

'Ok' he thought, 'Just go look at it. I'm sure it's misplaced or something, or someone finally giving me a bloody explanation as to where all my bloody letters have gone off to.'

John reaches out over the grave, as not to step on it (because to him it felt as though he would be stepping on Sherlock) and carefully grabs the letter. Off the bat John could tell this wasn't ordinary letter paper; it was heavy, even though it wasn't thick meaning that what was inside clearly wasn't a 20 page essay, the paper was rough and thicker than your average writing paper and the yellow tint was so odd. It wasn't glued shut in the front but before opening it John decided to see if it was addressed to anyone in particular. He was hesitant in looking to see if it was addressed to anyone, he had an odd feeling about all this. He looks around one last time before turning it over,

"Still no one." he thought. "Might as well have a look then."

Turning it over, his heart stops, and he forgets to breath.

"_**John"**_

The letter was addressed to him, _in Sherlock's handwriting_. John knew it was Sherlock's handwriting, he had seen it too many times to mistaken it for someone else's. The way the J curved around, the way his name was written in beautiful, cursive writing, the way the O slanted and how the pen went through it again curving upwards in order to form the H. It was all Sherlock, and John knew it. But HOW?! John was shaking, trembling as he clutched at the letter in his hands. How was it possible, Sherlock was _**dead! **_John saw him fall from the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, he saw Sherlock lying on the pavement with his brains splattered all over the pavement along with Sherlock, he felt for Sherlock's pulse and he didn't have one. _He didn't have a pulse_, **HE DIDN'T HAVE A PULSE**. John had to take deep, relaxing breaths in order to stop himself from hyperventilating. What the hell was going on? John knew the only way to really see what this was all about was to open the damn thing and get it over with. Clearly some idiot thought this was a very funny joke.

"Right, open the damn letter John and get to the bottom of this."

Angrily he flips over the letter, opens the letter and pulls out a yellow card. John gasps.


	2. Chapter 2

John didn't know what to be believe after he pulled out the card. All he could do was stare at it numbly, while wondering what the hell was going on. The note read:

_221B Baker Street, Thursday 2am_

_Come if convenient._

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

Something like this isn't possible, John thought. The handwriting was exactly the same as the writing on the back of the letter. This was all Sherlock's hand, and John knew it but his brain refused to accept all this information. All this was in contradiction of what was real! The only way for something like this to be possible is for Sherlock to be alive and breathing, somewhere roaming around London, but it wasn't. After rolling all this over again and again in his mind, standing awkwardly by Sherlock's grave, John suddenly became furious. He throws his own hand-written letter to the ground and crushes the note in his other hand. Who the hell had the right to do this to him?! There was no way Sherlock was alive, no matter how much he wishes it to be true. This was all some sick joke conducted by somebody who wanted to see him driven insane by all of it. Weren't all the problems he already had enough?! Now some idiot was going around, getting Sherlock's notes from somewhere and driving him nuts.

To an observer, anyone would have been able to tell John was fuming over the situation. He was stomping around the grave, mumbling angry remarks to himself and to however did this to him and kicking dirt around trying to release his anger onto something. Then, all of sudden he stops, looks up from his dirt-kicking activity and grins.

Whoever was doing this may be serious about showing up at Baker Street at the allotted time, if they were dumb enough, and he would be able to catch them red handed. _Thursday 2am, _that's what it said. Today was a Thursday, John thought. How the hell did they figure I would be here right in time to read the note and head over there? Was whoever who was doing this spying on him, or did they just get lucky? Or if they weren't spying, would they have gone there every Thursday at 2am until he came? Or was he too late? Was it left here many weeks ago? John had too many questions about all this, and he was quite unsure of what do to all of a sudden.

"Damn it, I'll take my bloody chances tonight and go have a look to see what the hell this is all about. Take a risk, John. You need to get this off your mind and out of your life as soon as possible, doing this tonight will help."

John knew what he had to do, his military senses were kicking in and he already had a strategy planned out. Forgetting his crumpled and torn letter in the dirt, he holds on tightly to the note, turns on his heel and heads towards the graveyard entrance, preparing himself. John was leaving to prepare for tonight.

1:30am: Sherlock was early; he just couldn't wait to see John, if he decided to show up that is. He knew the method in which he tried to lure John to Baker Street in order to meet him wasn't full-proof and it was a pretty pitiful excuse of an idea, for Sherlock that is. He just couldn't risk anything more than what he did; he only wanted John to know about him, no one else. Even staying out on Baker Street at this hour was a risk let alone leaving John that note and asking him to come there. Sherlock knew the risks, but for John he was willing to take them and accept the consequences.

Sherlock hadn't been to 221B since the fall, first of all he couldn't come by here without being noticed by somebody, and secondly even if he would be able to come by, un-noticed, he wouldn't have had the heart. Well, rather, he was scared to come by. He was scared of the emotions and feelings it brought up, even being there at that moment made him feel something so painful; a heavy weight over his heart, a hole in his chest nothing could ever fill, apart from being with John in 221B, solving curious cases once again. Sherlock impatiently waited, sitting on the cold damp steps leading up to the door of 221B, leading up to home. To Sherlock 221B Baker Street will always be home, no matter what, but it would truly be home if John would be there with him, but he knew that because of John's engagement, there was less than 1% chance of John moving back in. His future wife would never allow it. Sherlock felt slightly jealous on John's wife-to-be. It meant everything will change, IF anything got back to normal after all this. Sherlock knew the consequences of faking his death, but the benefits outweighed them all. In faking his own death, he saved John's life, and Lestrades, and Mrs. Hudson's. It was worth it in the end, he thought. It was all worth it.

1:55am: Even though it wasn't time yet, Sherlock began to feel uneasy. Was John really going to come? Di he wrongly deduct when he would place his next letter? Of course not! Sherlock was sure on himself that his deduction on that situation was thoroughly correct. Maybe John didn't want to come, or he thought it was all a big joke, which was more likely than the former. Either way, Sherlock decided to wait as long as possible to see if John would turn up. Deep down Sherlock ached for the sight of John.

It was pitch dark in the streets of London leading up to Baker Street, so John didn't see a thing. The last thing we was able to see is Sherlock's silhouette sitting on the steps of 221B. The atmosphere of the street was eerie, and John felt as though something was off about the place, like he was missing something. He was on full alert, using his military senses and trying to observe as much as he could through the blackness of the autumn night. Heading towards 221B John also felt a sense of melancholy; so many great memories resurfaced, and it made John weak at the knees thinking about it all. Those were some of the happiest years of his life and even though he found Mary, the woman he loves to bits, he still felt so upset. Sherlock wasn't there and it hurt like hell. He hadn't had the heart to come by 221B since he saw Sherlock fall to his… death. It was hard for John to even think about it, especially now. He was quite in his footsteps, treading as carefully as he could in order not to alert however was out there to his presence. He had taken his handgun with him, and placed it in the back of his pants, and he felt it rub against his back as he took his steps. It reminded him that he really wasn't going to see Sherlock, because if he would he wouldn't dream of taking a gun with him, or making other plans for that matter. Just metres away from the steps he notices a figure in the dark, which stops him dead in his tracks.

"There you are you little freak." John thought quite aggressively.

He stops, and brings his hand round to reach for his gun but as he reaches for it he notices the figure rise, and one distinct feature brings John to a halt; the hair, curly, bouncing and somewhat all over the place. Sherlock's hair, he thought. NOT POSSIBLE. John's heart starts pounding as the figure starts towards him, trying to reach out what looks like a hand. John panics and pulls his gun.

"Stop. Right. There." John's voice was weary and frightened. Whoever this was, was trying to make the most of their sick joke.

"I have a gun, and if you take a step closer I will shoot you in your knee which is worse than having a clear shot to your head." He breathed out heavily as speaking. He was shaking, the adrenaline pumping through his body was incredible and this was not what he expected. His stomach churned and felt as though it was doing backflips and he felt as though he would vomit anytime. What was going on, he thought.

John thought rapidly, "It can't be him. He's dead. He's dead. It's not Sherlock. It's not."

He couldn't even hold his gun steadily, he was shaking so much. You could hear him rattling.

Sherlock was surprised at first, why on earth was he pulling his gun on me? This doesn't seem like something John would do. Sherlock was quite hurt by John's reaction, but it quickly occurred to him what was going on; John thought it was a practical joke, so he took extra measures before showing up. But he showed up, Sherlock thought quite happily. He grinned to himself in the dark. He knew he would have to turn on the street lamps soon enough or he would lose the ability to walk thanks to John, and he quite enjoyed to walk. Sherlock may have been "dead" but he still had some contacts in order to arrange small things here and there such as turning off street lamps on certain streets and all he had to do to turn them back on was to send a quick message (already prepared and ready to send in his coat pocket) and POOF they would turn on again. He knew John wouldn't notice him reaching into his pocket, as he seemed to be shaking more than focusing his gun on his knees. Just as he reached in his pocket to send the signal, he thought he saw John reach into his pocket and fiddle around with something which most probably a mobile phone, in his coat pocket. How curious, Sherlock thought. Quickly dismissing it, he sends the message. In about a minute, all would be revealed.

Roughly a minute later the street lamps on 221B Baker Street turn on. At first John is blinded by all the sudden lights and encases his head in his arm, blocking the light from his eyes. As he slowly lifts his head, having adjusted to the light he looks up to find Sherlock Holmes grinning at him just metres away. John drops his gun, and he himself drops to his knees, ignoring the pain that comes along with thumping hard onto the pavement on ones knees, and just stares up at the smug, grinning face of Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello John. Miss me?"


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello John, _those words resonated in John's ears for a few moments. This was **the** Sherlock Holmes, the same Sherlock Holmes he saw fall to his death almost 3 years ago. John was beyond confused, he felt as though this entire situation broke his brain. John just knelt there, gaping at Sherlock for several minutes.

"You alright? You seem quite shocked, I can't imagine why. It was seemingly obvious I was alive."

Sherlock spoke in such a matter-of-fact manner it infuriated John to a point of wanting to punch Sherlock straight in the nose rather than hug him out of the joy of being alive rather than dead.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" John screams at Sherlock, his face suddenly turning red and him feeling the biggest urge to grab his gun and shoot Sherlock in the damn foot. "Years, Sherlock, _**years**_ go by and nothing! I was sure you were dead, I was sure I saw you die, and that I was the last one to ever hear your voice or see your face while you were alive! Why didn't you give any sign?! Why the hell did you do all this?! And after all that, you put some letter on your apparently empty grave and summon me here expecting us to reunite like old buddies and like nothing happened and to skip off into the sunset?!"

Sherlock was taken aback by John's abrasiveness and by his tone of voice, he thought that John would be happy to see him again and even though he refused to admit it, he did have a small twinkling hope that John and him would be able to pick off from where they left off and continue on with their lives, but as we all know, Sherlock never had a good grasp of certain unwritten "rules" that came with social interaction and relationships. Sherlock looked exactly like an innocent puppy, with a sad look on his face and body language that was similar to an animal tucking its tail between its legs. John saw how Sherlock reacted and remembered that Sherlock hadn't the slightest idea on how this entire thing works, to Sherlock, forgetting this and moving on and practically skipping off into the sunset seemed logical to the man. John decides to take a different tone, and maybe take on a new approach. John sighs out of defeat to Sherlock;

"Look, I'm sorry ok? I'm just upset about this entire situation, I'm upset with you."

Sherlock's eyes flare with pain as John says how he feels. He didn't want to make John feel that way, it was never his intention.

"Sherlock, you need to understand where I'm coming from, and even if you don't, at least try thinking about it from some sort of logical sense. You faked your death and then you hide out somewhere for nearly 3 years then, out of the blue, you decide it's time to reveal yourself to me and put a letter on your grave and summon me here tonight. I can't be the only one who sees something wrong in all of this. You have no idea what you meant to me, what you still mean to me. You were one of the most important people in my life and you went away and even now, I don't understand _why. _What could have possibly happened on that damned roof that you decided to jump?! And how the hell did you manage to fake it? I was sure you were dead, Sherlock. I saw you jump, I saw you fall, I saw you and your brains all over the pavement and I felt your non-existent pulse."

Sherlock interjects, "You never saw me hit the ground."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, unless you became deaf over the past 3 years. _You never saw me hit the ground_."

John stood gaping at Sherlock for a good few minutes before Sherlock decides to speak again.

"Weren't you saying something about my non-existent pulse before you decided to open your mouth and leave it open?"

John shakes his head and continues on, trying to brush off Sherlock's comment and not letting it get to him and his fairly wild imagination.

"Right, umm well, yes. I don't understand what happened, ok? That's why I'm upset. And what the hell was so horrid and secretive that you couldn't at least do something to show me you were still alive?! I needed that, Sherlock! You can observe things no one else can, see things that no one else sees and figure something out that were so obvious to you yet elusive to others, yet you can't see things that are blatantly obvious to others."

"And what, may I ask; did I _not_ observe that everyone else _did_?" Sherlock's tone was sharp and each word rolled of his tongue as though he were spitting poison at his prey. He was rather insulted by such a remark.

"Something you never seem to observe; emotions."

Sherlock's face turns sour, "Emotions" he hisses "What good is it to observe emotions. Does it show me something that I had not previously seen? Does it give me the information I require? Does it give me something I had not previously had?"

"It gives you a friend! Which from what I observed, you didn't have before-hand." John nearly yelled at Sherlock, barely containing himself. Sherlock winced at the remark. John had him there.

"Dammit Sherlock! If you hadn't observed this yet, you better try your damn hardest to observe it now whether you want to or not. You meant so much to me! You helped me get out of a downward spiral; you made me a better man, Sherlock! Whether you know it or not, you changed me for the better. I have no idea how you feel towards me as a friend, but I know how I feel towards you. You are my best friend. I never had the chance to tell you because of all that macho crap men keep up, but you are my best friend, and when you fell and when I thought you killed yourself, a small part of me shriveled up and died along with you and, coincidentally that same part that died was the strongest part of me. Finding out you're alive in such a way is such a huge shock, and the part of me that died is still dead! That part of me can't come back, because it was snatched away from me when I knew you were dead, or thought I knew you were dead. I'm just so upset now because I can't get that back like I got you back. You had the chance to say, or do something to show me that you were still here. I needed you more than ever Sherlock…."

John drifts off, and barely chokes back tears that demand to come streaming out of his eyes. He turns his head away from the penetrating glare of Sherlock so he can't see the pain beating off his face, but he knew that Sherlock had already seen enough to logically deduct everything he needed.

Sherlock saw John choke back tears as he drifted off. He could feel the pain resonate off John, and Sherlock felt something he had felt something which he had dismissed for 3 years; guilt. In that moment, Sherlock felt so guilty and he didn't know what to do. Using what he saw from those silly shows John had made him watch and from he saw in public far too often, he attempted to embrace John. Sherlock steps forward, opening his arms suggesting that he is there to comfort John. He attempts to say something but the guilt weighs down on his throat and his chest and instead of sound, tears come out of Sherlock. John turns to see Sherlock, at arm's length from him, in a position he had never seen him before; Sherlock's arms fall to his side, mouth open as though he wanted to say something and tears streaming down his face. Sherlock crying, something John had never seen before. John had no idea how Sherlock cried on the rooftop as he said his good-bye to John as he was too high up to see any details.

"Sherlock… Are… Are you crying?"

Sherlock ignored John; he was trying his best to stop the tears flowing out of him. What was all this? It only happened once before, when he gave his suicide note to John and that hurt enough. Now this hurt even more. While choking back the heart-crushing feeling and having tears stream down his face he looks straight into John's eyes and speaks.

"I wanted to tell you, John. I wanted you to know I was still alive. I should have done something more obvious than stealing your letters, I know. I just didn't know what to do. I wanted to when I saw you visit my grave for the first time with Mrs. Hudson; I saw how hurt you were..." Sherlock's voice was breaking; he was barely holding himself together. "I heard everything you said, I saw everything you did. I wanted to walk out of the bushes I was hiding in and show myself to you, smile and laugh and say 'Here I am John, don't be sad anymore.' But I couldn't. You say I don't observe emotions, and I don't, but with you I observed everything, even things that I thought were pointless. You are the most important person in the world for me, John. You made everything better. I knew that you would make everything better when I met you; you became my best friend faster than you thought that I wasn't completely nuts. You say I made you a better man, but what you did to change me was much bigger than that, but you wouldn't know because I never showed it, I thought it was silly. I'm not a man for emotions, but with you I felt somewhat normal and I felt like that was my place; to be by your side, by my best friend. You think I didn't want to show myself to you, but I did. It crossed my mind every day and it didn't help when you started to bring your damn letters. I had to read them, because I needed to know how you honestly felt. The first few were so painful to read, but I knew if I were to give you time, you would feel better. It took a few years but things got better for you. It hurt that I wasn't there to share all those wonderful new experiences with you, but I thought it would be better if I were to leave you be. You started to get over my death, not entirely but enough to start living a life again. I was happy for you, and I knew showing myself to you would have destroyed everything. I only decided to do it now because…"

Sherlock was hesitant to say the words he had been meaning to say for years. He was scared John would laugh at him, call him silly and walk away never to look back. He was afraid.

"Because I missed you, John. I would see you around London once in a while and it hurt me that I couldn't walk up to you and say anything. I missed laughing with you and us sitting in the apartment; you blogging and me doing some experiment that you loathed or thought silly and us arguing over who'll get the milk. It got to a point where I thought that if you were to see me you would be happy instead of upset. I deducted that enough time had passed for the pain to have gone away for you. I suppose that I deducted very wrongly this time…"

John was dumbfounded. This was the first time that Sherlock had ever opened up about anything to him in such a manner. He was looking at Sherlock, the man who wouldn't even get mildly upset about his own brother going against him, about Moriarty trying to screw him over or anything, and now he was practically breaking down in front of John. John couldn't help but gape at Sherlock; he was crying, legitimately crying. His lip was quivering; throat strained himself from crying even more than he already was and pain. Pain in those eyes that usually elicit curiosity and wonder and fascination, were now filled with pain and hurt and guilt. John didn't even notice that he himself was crying he was too absorbed in Sherlock's words and attitude.

"Please say something John. Please…"

John was speechless. He had never seen Sherlock break down before, and John was staring at him like the seventh wonder of the world. Sherlock's crying was getting more intense as the seconds passed and John didn't give any sort of reply.

"John!" Sherlock barely choked out his name.

"I… I don't know how to respond to that."

Sherlock knew that he was going to lose it now. He thought that he had gone and done it with John, gone and made himself look like the biggest fool to ever walk to face of the earth. Well the smartest fool to walk the face of the earth.

"I don't know how to feel anymore Sherlock. I want to feel angry with you for what you did but after your little speech… I don't know if I can. I never knew you felt so strongly about it, or about anything. You're so good at hiding everything that I could never tell how you felt or what you thought. How do you expect me to react to anything like this if I've never experienced something like this happen with you?!"

"Say something to acknowledge something that I said. Tell me if I'm foolish for what I said or if you can forgive me! Say something to know if I should walk away from here or stay and continue talking with you! There is plenty you can say, you just don't want to say anything."

John wanted to object, but stopped, "No… No. You're right. I _don't_ want to say anything. I don't want to say anything because I don't think I would be able to express how I honestly feel about all this properly."

"What do you mean? How _do_ you feel?" Sherlock sniffed.

"I feel confused, Sherlock. I'm not angry or upset anymore. I'm not happy right now, even though deep down I'm ecstatic about you being alive, I'm just confused. There are so many questions I have for you and until they're all answered I don't think everything can be the way you wanted it to be, and even after all that, things never will be the same Sherlock."

John sheds some tears as he says all this, wiping them away quickly with his coat sleeve. It hurt him to say all that, but it was true. Things never really could be the same between them even if he wanted them to be. He missed the old them so much, that he couldn't start thinking about all the fun they had without getting upset knowing that all that was the past, and it would never come back.

Just as Sherlock was about to reply to John, he heard someone's feet shuffling behind him. He also noticed John look up and look towards something behind Sherlock. Someone else was here, and John knew about it.

"John, who did you call over here while you were pointing your gun at me?"

"What makes you think…"

Sherlock cut him off, "Don't play stupid with me, John. I saw you fiddle with something in your pocket in the dark. You contacted someone. Who was it?"

Sherlock had a very hard set tone.

"Look, before you get upset, I thought this was a big joke. I thought you were a nutter who wanted to play a sick joke on me so I called in a favour.."

"WHO IS IT JOHN?"

John opens his mouth to reply but as he does so, Lestrade steps into the light, placing himself in front of Sherlock.

"Bloody hell. It really is you, ain't it?!"

"Lestrade?"


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade stood there, just gaping at Sherlock.

"You called _**Lestrade**_ over?! For what?" Sherlock was furious with John. Those tears in his eyes and the pain on his face immediately transitioned into anger and fury.

"Like I said, I thought you were some crazy person who set me up for a joke and I didn't want to take any chances so I…"

"Spare me your excuses John! I would have thought it was obvious that _**I**_ was the one who wrote the damn letter, but you being Mr. Military decided that even though the handwriting was mine without a doubt and **not** a forgery it still could be some sort of practical joke so he brought along his handgun and A POLICE OFFICER."

John was just astonished with Sherlock and his wave of emotions he never saw in him before. All this was coming out at once and John wasn't sure if it was more distressful and shocking for him or for Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you need to calm down, ok? I did it for a perfectly logical reason."

"Did you, now?" Sherlock's voice was mocking and he was speaking down to John as if he were some sort of child. "And pray tell me what reason that may be."

"Not until you change your attitude on the entire situation, and your attitude towards me."

"Why should I?! I demand to know…"

"Well demanding is not something you have the right to do at this point in time! If you haven't noticed you have a lot to make up for to me! I'm not done with you faking your death and not doing anything to contact me! Secondly demanding an explanation in such a manner is something a 5 year old does. Until you stop acting like a child, I won't tell you my reason for doing what I did."

"I am **not** acting like a child!"

"You damn well are!"

"Suggesting that a mind like mine can be compared to as simple a mind as a 5 year old is beyond insulting."

"I'm talking about your _attitude_, Sherlock. Not your mind. If your mind is as intelligent as you put it out to be you should have been able to make the difference."

Lestrade steps in, "May I interject?"

Both Sherlock and John turn to him angrily and shout "NO."

"Well I'm going to anyway."

"Lestrade…" Sherlock's voice is shaky with anger and barely stops himself from yelling at Lestrade.

"Sherlock, I know I shouldn't be here. Judging by your reaction I clearly shouldn't be here and it's clear John sees he made a big mistake but don't you go putting out all your anger on him. Remember that I agreed to this and even though I saw it was you I pushed myself to come closer, making some noise and exposing myself."

John interrupts, "You see, don't just get mad at me. I never forced him to come. I asked for a favour and…"

"John, don't think that you aren't acting like a child either. Both you and Sherlock are acting like two little kids who don't know how to sort out a problem properly so you yell at each other. You two are acting like school children, or two lovers who clearly don't have their minds intact."

Both Sherlock and John are both quite taken aback by what Lestrade said.

"Look, if it makes you both feel better, I can leave and it'll be as though I was never here. John called in a favour. He told me about the letter and his worries and asked if I could be on standby tonight."

"Standby?" Sherlock was confused.

"Yes, standby. He wanted to come here tonight and confront the person alone. He took his gun for protection and expected to see some random idiot walking about. Instead he must have seen something that freaked him out or made him panic and he sent me the signal via text message. I received it and made my way down here as fast as possible. I was on a nearby street so I got here quick enough to see the lamps turn on and you standing there being yelled at by John. I kept at a distance but I was so shocked that it was you that you were… ALIVE, that I had to come closer. I stepped quietly but at one point when you were being so emotional, I was so absorbed in it I forgot to be quiet and made a noise. I would have left you both alone, but you heard me and I knew you would just continue yelling at John if I didn't show myself."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, and then he looked to John to see if it was some sort of lie, or joke on his part.

"What he said is true. I appreciate it Lestrade, maybe it would be better if you leave though."

"No. Lestrade cannot leave."

"And why not?" Lestrade was confused and irritated.

"You've seen me alive, the last thing I need is for you to go to work in the morning and start announcing to Scotland Yard that I'm still alive and.."

"Sherlock, I won't do that; all that has been dropped against you. John was able to provide enough proof for them to drop the case."

"What?"

"The entire case is dropped. If you were to appear at Scotland Yard tomorrow the only thing you would have to worry about is people panicking because you're back from the dead."

Sherlock looked at John, what the hell kind of proof did he gather in order to clear his name?

"John?"

"It's a long story Sherlock… I'd much rather tell you in a more discrete place for certain reasons."

John kept glancing towards the street camera in attempt to tell Sherlock something without using words. Sherlock, being in a state of confusion, anger and being upset over the istuation with John, was unable to deduct what John was trying to say.

"John… I… I don't under-"

John put his finger over his closed lips; quiet. Why does he want me to be quiet?

"Well boys, if it's any interest to you I'm off. I'm pretty tired and I still have a job to get to in a few hours' time. I'll forget I ever saw you here if you want Sherlock… I don't want to but if it's necessary I'll do it. John, give me a call if you have any issues, yeah?"

"Lestrade, why don't we meet here tomorrow after work? You me and Sherlock can go in together and hopefully not scare the living daylights out of poor Mrs. Hudson when she sees you alive."

John looked to Sherlock for approval but what he saw when he looked into Sherlock's eyes was sudden guilt and all of a sudden Sherlock couldn't look him straight in the eyes.

"Sounds good to me lads. Have a good night."

John watched as Lestrade disappeared into the dark of the night as he turned the corner to head home. Turning back to Sherlock, he sees him texting someone on his mobile phone.

"You had your phone all this time, and you couldn't even give me a call or try to contact me any other way to get me here? Who the hell could you possibly be texting anyway?!"

"It's of no business of yours John." As swiftly as he took the phone out of his coat pocket, he slides it back in. "Perhaps Lestrade was smart in thinking it was time to head home. You still have a job to get to in the morning and I have to sort out some things before we have our little meet up."

"You don't even sleep half the time! Now all of a sudden you want to go home and get some rest for our big day tomorrow? Before you wanted us to stay and talk things over! I want to talk to you Sherlock, I still need answers and we are far from our relationship being out of deep waters."

"I never said I want to get some rest, I said I have things to sort out and they take time John. We have plenty of time to talk. Now I should go ho-"

"No Sherlock. I can't watch you walk away; I can't watch you go again! I just saw you alive and even though I'm still upset with you and don't want to see you go. I just got you back…"

"I'm not leaving for good John. Relax; we will see each other later today." Sherlock was surprised by John's reaction to him wanting to leave. He felt quite comforted by the fact that even though he was sure John wanted to punch him in the face for doing what he did, he still didn't want him to leave. It brought a smile to his lips.

"What the hell are you smiling on about? Sherlock we need..."

"We need to get some sleep. Or, at least, you need to. Don't forget that you still have Mary waiting for you at home. Don't want to worry her, now do we?"

Damn it, John thought. He forgot all about Mary in the excitement of the night. He never told her the real reason for him having left home at such an hour, but he just couldn't. She knew all about what happened and every time he would talk about it he would get emotional, and if he were to have mentioned it to her again tonight all those emotions would have risen up again, from the depths where he keeps them as well hidden as possible.

"Right… Mary."

"You wouldn't want her to start thinking you're fooling around with some other woman, now would you?"

"Why the hell would she think that? I told her I had to go out tonight because of work, she said it was fine and let me off."

"Ahhh, she trusts you."

Sherlock immediately starts laughing. John felt irritated by Sherlock's surprise to that fact.

"What's so funny? Of course she trusts me! Why wouldn't she?"

Sherlock continues to laugh, trying to come up for a breath in order to answer but with each try he would look at John with his annoyed and confused face he would just start off again. John was amazed at the show of feeling and emotions Sherlock was presenting, if John wouldn't have been a doctor in order to tell the difference, he would have sworn Sherlock was drunk or high.

"It's funny because she trusts a man who couldn't keep a girlfriend for more than a month before she trotted off due to something you did. Maybe eyeing up some other lady or flirting when she was around."

"Due to something _I_ did?! They trotted off because you were so unbelievable rude to them, but I couldn't have them avoid you because I lived with you! They couldn't stand it, so they left. I couldn't keep a girl because you were there."

"Ahhh, now see that John? That's where you're wrong. I was never rude to them, I simply stated facts and it's not my fault they can't handle the truth about themselves. Secondly, I never made you skip dates or leave them alone somewhere or make you stay at home with them. You did all that on your own. You willingly came to help me, leaving them behind. I never insisted upon your being there, John."

That shut John up. Thinking back, Sherlock was more than right, he was pretty damn accurate about all of it. Whenever he would call, he would appear. He couldn't help it, he loved solving cases with Sherlock and he loved being with Sherlock. It was always an adventure with him. Suddenly John's stomach churned anxiously, now that Sherlock is back what's going to happen with Mary? John knew that he would do the same as before, and now the situation was different, he didn't even want to leave Sherlock alone. Not again. He wouldn't be able to handle it if Mary was to leave him, he genuinely loved her and if she were to leave, oh god, if she were to leave John would lose it.

"Well, I'm off John… Things to do, you see. I appreciate that you don't want to leave me alone, but I'll be fine and you'll see me again later today. Mary needs you now. And I need to go."

Sherlock smiled coyly at John, and turned his heel to head to his apartment before John would start up again. Then he remembered:

"We meet here at 3pm today. Just so you know, don't forget to inform Lestrade!"

Quickening his pace he goes up the road, and then turns left to head home. He stopped in an ally way before reaching is apartment building; he leans on the moist and cold wall and takes in a deep shaky breath. What was he going to do? How was he going to tell John everything? Telling John how he survived would tell him more than he needed to know about how else knew he was alive all these years. Molly, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson… He had until 3pm to get everything sorted. He needed to be prepared for John… No matter what he thought of though, he didn't know how he was going to explain anything to him.


	5. Chapter 5

John couldn't focus at work, all he could think about was the fact that yesterday he was sure Sherlock was lying in a grave and today he knew that he was walking around the streets of London alive and well. That wasn't the only reason he couldn't focus, he was also dead tired; he had trouble sleeping during the few hours he had left before work. Luckily Mary was asleep when he got home so he didn't have to worry about explaining anything to her. He couldn't focus on any of his patients; he would always drift off thinking about what had happened less than 12 hours ago. John didn't know whether to laugh or cry about it.

"Do you have any idea what I should do about it?"

John drifts back into reality in time to hear his patient.

"Pardon?"

"What should I do about this?"

The patient points to a nasty looking rash on their forearm.

"I'm sorry, but how did you get that in the first place? How does it feel?"

"Haven't you been listening? I have just spent 15 minutes explaining everything to you!"

"I'm sorry ma'am, I lost my focus. I'm dead tired and…"

"Hmph! As a doctor you should listen to your patients! Are you like this with all of your patients?!"

"No ma'am, I just…"

"Right, so you just have a problem with me then?!"

"No I don't, I…"

"What a rude man you are, sir! I better consult the drug dealer on my corner street than consult a doctor who doesn't listen!"

The middle-aged woman gets up from the chair and stomps out the room, slamming the door on her way out. John winces at the slamming noise the door makes.

"Well today is just going swimmingly." He mutters to himself.

He decides to do one more patient before heading off, but before buzzing in the next person, his phone goes off. John rushes over to it thinking it's Mary, but he stops because she knows not to call him during work hours, slowly reaching out for his phone, he checks the caller ID; unknown number. John sighs,

"Must be some bloody patient with a complaint."

It wouldn't be the first time John had this happen. He decided it would be better to answer and see what the problem is.

"Hello, Dr. John Watson speaking. How can I help you?"

"Downstairs, now."

Then the call disconnects. John knew it was Sherlock from the deep and somewhat seductive voice of the man that spoke.

"The man isn't back in my life for one day and he's already ordering me around."

John huffs, pushes himself away from the desk and grabs his stuff. Even though he disapproved of Sherlock ordering him around, he still did what Sherlock said without any hesitation. No matter how angry or upset he was with Sherlock, he still trusted the man with all his being and would do whatever he said, whenever. And Sherlock knew that he had that effect on John.

Rushing out of the office he shuts his door, and tells the secretary at the front desk that he wasn't feeling well and he had to take the rest of the day off. No one had to know he was dismissing the rest of his work day in order to succumb to the demands of Sherlock Holmes. John practically skipped down the steps of his office building, once again forgetting about his limp and PTSD, because when Sherlock was around he always felt a sense of adventure and always forgot about his problems. Sherlock was like a medicine for him, making him feel better. John often thought that Sherlock was more like a drug than a medicine for him. When Sherlock was around he felt alive and well and as though he could do anything, but when he was gone all that went away. He didn't feel happy, the colours of the world felt somewhat drab and dull. John smiled at the thought as he hurriedly opened the door and the bottom of the stairs, and opened it to see Sherlock waiting, rather impatiently, by a lamp post.

"Took you long enough."

"Well, you know, I did have to sort things out upstairs. I can't just up and leave however I please. I have responsibilities and all."

Sherlock smiled, "Same old John, worrying about such small trifles when something much bigger waits."

John wanted to object, but at the same moment something hit him; there he was with Sherlock Holmes, his best friend who he thought dead no less than 24 hours ago was now standing in front of him, grinning and impatient waiting for John to pull himself and his thoughts together in order to set out on some wild chase or case or something exciting. John couldn't stop himself from smiling at Sherlock, and couldn't help forgetting how upset he was supposed to be with him.

Sherlock was starting to lose his patience with John, and just as he was about to say something to move them along, John started to smile at him for no reason. At first he thought John had lost his mind during his absence but then Sherlock realized that John was smiling at him for a purely logical reason; he was back in John's life and vice versa. Then Sherlock thought John can't be that mad with him anymore because he seemed so happy now.

"Well it looks as though someone isn't upset anymore." Sherlock says grinning at John.

"Ha, just because I'm happy your back doesn't mean I'm not upset with you."

"But… you're smiling at me. Doesn't that count for anything?"

Sherlock sounded beyond confused, he just sounded lost. John couldn't help himself from laughing at Sherlock's ignorance to common social rules and the way things work.

"What's so funny?"

"Ahhh, nothing. Sherlock, remember this; just because someone may be happy that you are back in their life doesn't mean they can't be upset or angry with you at the same time."

"But it's a contradiction, John! One can't be happy and sad with someone at the same time. I most certainly can't be."

John starts to laugh again, he found Sherlock so amusing when it came to all this.

"Oh forget it Sherlock! You can't be because the way you see relationships is quite twisted."

In response, Sherlock crosses his arms and turns his back to John, in the same manner a child does to their parents.

"Oh, come on Sherlock! Don't go off acting like a child again. Look, you told me to come downstairs for a reason, now what is it?"

With his back still facing John he answers, "I thought I should bring you to 221B earlier than arranged."

"What on earth for? Have you got another surprise that you're worried might shock me?" John half-heartedly laughs at his own question, thinking Sherlock would give some sort of answer that would deny his assumption, but Sherlock kept his back turned. That threw up a red flag for John.

"Sherlock, please tell me we are done with surprises. Why are we going there earlier?"

John started to worry; he knew that the lack of response from Sherlock meant that he had planned something, something he may not like.

"It's not a surprise. I simply wish you to come with me there earlier than arranged. Now, shall we get started or would you rather grow old and die on the sport before deciding to move?"

"If you're trying to comfort me with what you just said, don't, because it's not working."

Sherlock puffs out an annoyed breath and turns to grab John by the sleeve. Sherlock had planned a surprise, well it wasn't much of a surprise, as it was something Sherlock needed to arrange that may or may not shock John. Sherlock had called Mycroft, Molly and Mrs. Hudson over to meet them in their apartment. All of them knew of Sherlock's plan and what he did, all of them knew within a few months of it happening. John had no idea, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to hide it from John. He didn't have the heart, he didn't want to hurt John again. Sherlock didn't know much about all the rules and concepts of relationships, but he knew this; if someone is your best friend or the most important person in the world for you, you have to tell them the truth, the entire truth. Sherlock knew one day he would reveal to John how he survived, he had already given him a hint last night, but today was not that day. Today, he would reveal how he kept his secret so well hidden for so long.


	6. Chapter 6

"Right, Sherlock. I want you to tell me why the hell did you decide to drag me over here earlier than agreed?"

"Why does it matter? You're about to see why."

John was just stalling, he was anxious to go into 221B again. Of course he was wondering why on earth Sherlock brought him here early, but his mind was more preoccupied with his churning stomach and his anxious feeling to step into the apartment again. He just couldn't, he felt as though his feet were glued to the ground. He saw Sherlock making his way towards the door and John panicked.

"STOP! Stop…" John yelled at Sherlock hoping to stop him from moving any further.

"What the hell has gotten into you, John?"

Sherlock was quite frustrated with John's persistence to wait longer. He had planned everything down to the minute, and he was going to be behind if he let John stall anymore.

"John, don't be nervous. I know you haven't been here in a while and neither have I. I thought you would want to go in though, not hang around out here. John, listen to me; I have planned something out for you, and I planned it down to the minute, which is why I need you to be here earlier than Lestrade. You have to understand that this is important to me. When have I ever planned something out that was completely pointless or useless?"

"Well, never but –"

"No buts. John, please. I'm asking you to just come inside. Everything will be ok."

"You know it's funny how calm you are about going in! Aren't you at all worried about poor Mrs. Hudson and how she'll react to your being alive?! She still lives here you know, and how can you be so sure that she didn't rent the place out to someone else? And how do you know if –"

John was babbling, Sherlock could tell. Stepping down from the door he goes and puts his hands on John's shoulders:

"Listen to me John, and this time, actually listen; I planned everything out. I planned out everything so you wouldn't have to worry about anything, ok? Everything will be OK. Just step inside with me and everything will be fine."

John couldn't look Sherlock in the eyes. He felt so embarrassed of his behavior, it wasn't like him to babble and try to avoid something altogether.

"John, look at me; whatever happens up there, promise me that you'll think through your actions before doing them. Please, that's all I'm asking of you, nothing more."

"Sherlock, why would you as-"

"Just promise me!" Sherlock sounded very anxious, a tone almost similar to that he had on the roof 3 years ago. John could never forget what Sherlock sounded like; it was forever burned in his memory.

"Fine, I promise."

"Do you mean it?"

"What?"

"Do you mean it John!"

"Yes, yes I mean it!"

"Good, now, let's stop dawdling and go upstairs, shall we?"

Sherlock grabs John by the arm and leads him to the door, he could feel John shaking. Sherlock was more nervous than ever, knowing that what would happen upstairs may or may not make Sherlock lose John for good. He was containing himself though, and acting perfectly calm.

As they entered through the door, he could hear John take in a breath, as if he were diving into deep waters. Sherlock's own breath started to become shaky with nerves. He hoped John couldn't hear him. He guided John up the stairs by holding his arm. They went up slowly, Sherlock didn't want to rush the last possible moments he had alone with John. How was he to know if everything went right or wrong? Logically, everything should go right and John should understand, but John wasn't as logical as he was so the odds of everything going well drastically dropped. They approached the door that led to their old apartment, and then he felt John freeze. Sherlock turned to John and tried comforting him by rubbing his arm.

"John, it's alright. We're almost there."

John was surprised by how comforted he was by Sherlock's words. Sherlock's voice had always been deep and somewhat calming, and he had missed that. He looked at Sherlock, thinking he would see a happy face, of sorts anyway, but what he saw made his stomach churn even more. Sherlock had a grim and anxious face; his expression told a whole different story than his voice. John knew what he was about to see in the apartment could really hit him hard, and even affect their newly found (although damaged) friendship. He hears Sherlock turn the door handle to enter. He decides to close his eyes as he's dragged through into the apartment of 221B.

"John, please open your eyes."

'I want to Sherlock, but I'm scared.' John thought. He heard shoes scuffing around him and other people's breaths, who the hell did Sherlock bring along? John started to get confused again. He decided to open his eyes, hoping he was hearing things, and all he would see is Sherlock standing there. Upon opening his eyes, he does see a Mr. Holmes, just not the one he was hoping for.

"Ahhh, John. What a pleasure to see you after quite a few years. How've you been? Well, I presume? How's Mary treating you? Did you both finally get the fabrics you wanted for the wedding?"

John was once again left mouth open. Mycroft Holmes? What was Mycroft doing here?! How did he know that Sherlock was alive? He had mourning drinks with Mycroft after the death of Sherlock.

"Mycr… Mycroft? What are you doing here? How did you kno-"

"Oh John don't act like a fool. You can't have possibly forgotten what my occupation is? Of course I knew my little brother was alive. Do you think I didn't spy on him? Do you think I didn't spy on you? I even kept in touch with Sherlock, quite discretely I might add. He called me in to do a few favours, which I refused of course but we had our little argument and blackmailed each other several times before coming to an agreement."

Mycroft coyly smiled at John. John had no idea what to say. He was entirely baffled by the situation, in hope of someone shedding light on the subject; he turned to Sherlock, who just nodded to confirm that what Mycroft was saying is true.

"Molly, Mrs. Hudson, would you two please come over here?" Mycroft called.

"Sherlock?"

John was even more confused, why were they here? The only way they would be here was if they knew Sherlock was alive…

"Ahh, there you ladies are. Do say hello to John."

John turns around to face Mrs. Hudson and Molly, both smiling from ear to ear.

"Ohh John my dear!"

Mrs. Hudson goes in to hug John, feeling happy to see him after 3 years.

"Hi John. How've you been?"

Molly stays back, letting Mrs. Hudson preen John, like a mother would her child. John couldn't tell if he was happy, angry, frustrated or just confused about the entire situation. John pulls away from Mrs. Hudson, trying to be gentle, and turns to Sherlock for an explanation, but, as usual, only getting a 'isn't-it-obvious' face.

"I'm sorry to ruin the mood here, but, aren't you all as surprised as I am that Sherlock is still alive?! I mean, I don't understand what's going on here? Fine, I can understand how Mycroft knows, he bloody spies on everybody, you can't take a shit without him knowing when he's spying on you" Mycroft makes quite a sour face to John's remark, "But you Molly, and Mrs. Hudson, how did you two know? Or find out? The only way for you two to know is if he came to you both earlier or you were both in on it from the start…"

John trails off, realizing that he answered his own question. Sherlock hadn't gone to them a week or so earlier to show them he was alive, they were in on it from the start. At least Molly was, and Mrs. Hudson must have been taken into the whole scheme just after their first visit to the grave. John goes from confused to hurt in seconds. He looks to Molly and Mrs. Hudson hoping he was wrong, but their faces confirmed his assumption. He turns to Sherlock, hoping to see him laugh and say it's all a big joke, that he didn't really keep John out of the dark for so long, but Sherlock couldn't look him in the eyes for more than a few seconds before he saw guilt take over and Sherlock turn away.

"Why, Sherlock? Why did you let everyone else in on it, and leave me out?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He just stared at his shoes, hoping the question would go away.

"Sherlock, why?! Answer me! Why did you leave me out of it?! Why was everyone else capable of keeping your secret, but I wasn't?!"

Instead of an answer, all he got was silence. Tears started to well up in John's eyes again, he felt so betrayed by Sherlock, so hurt. Sherlock turns to John, and sees tears form in his eyes.

'Please don't cry, John. I can't bare the fact that I'm causing you more pain than I already have.' Sherlock thought desperately.

"Answer me Sherlock!" John's voice broke as he spoke. He knew he would lose it in front of everyone.

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, Mycroft stepped in, obviously knowing an argument was at hand and that Sherlock may break down as well. He knew everything that happened during the night. So did Mrs. Hudson.

"My brother kept you in the dark because he knew how affected you would have been by him coming back from the dead a few months after it occurred, and –"

"No, no, stop it. You stop it right there Mycroft. I would have been fine if he would have come to me just a few months after it happened. Those few months before his grave was set I sat here, in 221B, waiting and hoping that Sherlock would turn up and say everything will be ok! I sat here, waiting, because I knew it was IMPOSSIBLE for him to be dead, no matter the fact I saw him fall! I sat here for months, Mycroft, MONTHS, hoping he would turn up. Hoping he would walk through that door and smile at me and say everything was alright. Every day that I got up and came and sat here, I was waiting. Even the day that I and Mrs. Hudson planned to visit his grave, I woke up hoping that was the day he would turn up. Even on the cab ride to the graveyard I hoped that the driver might turn somewhere and bring us to Sherlock. But no, we arrived where we were supposed to, and that was the moment all my hopes started to crumble to the ground. You may find it funny, but even as we approached his grave, and as my heart ached and my vision blurred, I hoped Sherlock would jump out of the bushes and say 'Hey! I'm alive, John. Don't be upset.' but nothing of the sorts happened. So, when I was there, standing over his grave, that is where my hopes of him being alive fell to ruins, but even then, if he would have turned up then, I would have been ok with it. As I was talking to him, talking to his grave, I felt my hopes fly away as each second passed without Sherlock turning up. I still wished for him to be alive, but I knew it was foolish after that point to think him alive anymore. I was, after all, at his grave, freshly buried with a nice shiny headstone on it to embellish the damn thing."

John stops, to wipe away tears from his face. This time he wasn't going to stop crying here, he was going to weep, like a little boy who lost his mother.

"Even then, as I said goodbye to him in his grave, I wished for him to turn up then and there, but he didn't."

John was choking back so many tears, his voice breaking and strained.

"That was the time I needed you most Sherlock!"

He turns to see Sherlock looking at him, guilt covering his face, and some tears streaming down his face. This time John wasn't impressed by Sherlock's show of emotions, he felt so hurt.

"Showing up now hurts more than it would have had you shown up straight after it happened. I was so sure you were dead. I gave up hope a year ago, thinking it was foolish to think you alive anymore, yet here you stand. So answer me, why did you leave me out of it? I don't care why you brought in Molly or Mrs. Hudson or how you bloody well survived. All I care about now is why you chose to leave me out of it all. If you thought it would help me, you were so wrong, my god how wrong you were. It _destroyed_ me, Sherlock. Do you know what I mean when I say destroyed? Because it was a lot worse than it sounds."

Just as Sherlock thought he had seen John go through the worst kind of pain the previous night, he saw John go through even more pain then and there. He didn't know what to say, all he knew was that the feeling of guilt felt so heavy on him, that he felt as though he couldn't breathe.

"Sherlock, answer me right now or I'll walk out that door and never look back and you'll never see me again."

John was dead serious, Sherlock could see it in his eyes, the way they hardened with anger and hurt. Sherlock couldn't afford to lose John, not again.

"John… Maybe if you sit and I'll –"

"No. No, Sherlock. You tell me _now_. I have the right to know. Everyone in this room knows how much I've suffered! Do you want me to walk out that door?"

"No. I don't want you to."

"Then don't make me ask again; why?"

"I wanted you to get detached. Don't you remember what I told you over the phone? I told you to tell everyone you could that I was a fraud, that I found everything out through research and special tricks, not through logical deduction, because it's impossible for anyone to be that brilliant. I knew you wouldn't though, I knew you would hold my name up, and try to keep it up there while everyone tried to shoot it down. I thought that the longer I stay away, the easier it would be for you to finally accept what I said on the roof, and tell everyone. I knew approaching you right after you saw me fall wouldn't affect you in a bad way, I saw you, every day, sulking and waiting in the apartment, thanks to Mycroft and his spying techniques. I had never wanted to comfort somebody before, but when I saw what state you were in, all I wanted to do was say 'Hey, here I am.' but I needed you to forget about me. I knew you had a good idea that I was still alive, and I was hoping if I don't show up you would grow to resent me and tell everyone what I said. Molly knew about it from the start because she helped me organize everything to make it seem as though I died, Mrs. Hudson found out the day you visited my grave for the first time because I know she would be able to do me the favour needed and tell people what I told her to tell if they ever asked about me, Mycroft found out, well he found out pretty early on because he is a man who can't keep out of other people's business. I didn't want to let you in on it because I knew you would refuse to say anything against me to anyone because of this goddamn high regard you have of me. I never understood how you could see me as some sort of savior or angel; I'm far from it. I told someone this before, someone despicable and exactly like me; I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for a moment, that I am one. You never seemed to have understood that and I never understood why. I was thinking the longer I stayed away, the more you would see me as what I truly was."

"Is that it? You kept me in the dark, in hope that I start lying about you to other people?! That is the most idiotic reason I've heard in my entire life. Sherlock, even if you would have never shown yourself to me I would have held your name up high, regardless of what anyone said to me. I don't care what you think, or why you think it, and I bloody well don't care if you are an angel or the devil himself, all I care about is the fact that my best friend was alive all this time and HE DIDN'T TELL ME DUE TO SOME RIDICULOUS REASON."

Sherlock smiled at John; all of this, no matter how odd, made him feel wanted inside. Sherlock decides to do something quite out of place.

"Come on John, we're leaving."

"What? We're not done here yet! I still have plenty to say!"

"Then say it on the way!"

He pushes through Mycroft, grabs John's arm and drags him out of the apartment. Sherlock needed to show something to John.


	7. Chapter 7

"Sherlock.."

Sherlock wasn't listening, all he cared about was getting John to where he wanted.

"Sherlock, tell me where we're going!"

Sherlock just kept going, pulling John along behind him like a dog on a leash. He was walking through the crowds of people on the streets, shoving people aside to make room for him and John, rushing about causing John to trip several times. John was still hurt by Sherlock, but in the end, Sherlock did tell him why he never revealed himself to John; John knew that can't have been easy for a stubborn man like Sherlock. John was, of course, still immensely hurt by Sherlock's actions. He didn't want to go anywhere with Sherlock now, he wanted to stay in 221B and talk about everything, they needed to sort things out before anything could come close to normal again, and he knew that Sherlock didn't understand that. Once they reached an alleyway, John stops all of a sudden, jerking Sherlock backwards because he still had a tight grip on John's arm. Sherlock turns to John looking confused.

"Why on earth are you stopping here John? We still have about a mile before reaching where I want us to reach."

"No, Sherlock."

"No what?" Sherlock was getting quite frustrated at the fact that John was confusing him more and more.

"No, I'm not going to go with you any further until we talk things through. You may not understand this Sherlock, but after such an event that occurs between two friends, they both need to talk about everything before rushing off and acting as if nothing happened to their relationship. You need to understand how I felt, how I honestly felt throughout the entire 3 years, only then maybe you can understand and only then maybe we ca-"

"John, if you would just shut up and follow me, you'll be able to see. I understand more than you think."

"I doubt you do, Sherlock. You don't understand why I respect you so much and why I have such a high regard for you. The way you explained it in the apartment made it seem as though you find my respect and care for you rather foolish. You don't seem to tie too many emotions to our relationship, to be honest I haven't seen you cry about anything until last night, and part of me thinks it's some sort of act, although another part believes that you honestly feel strongly about our relationship, but I doubt it because even though I believe you have some small shred of emotion in that head of yours, I haven't seen you express any until last night."

"Is that why you doubt that I actually understand where you're coming from?"

"How the hell would you know where I'm coming from if you haven't ever been in the place I'm coming from!?"

"How can you be so sure I've never been in the place you're coming from?! How can you be so sure that I don't experience emotions; just because I never _show_ them? Now THAT, is stupid reasoning John. And them emotions you have seen come to the surface over the past day have been very real, they aren't some great acting skills which I conjured up in order for you to be softer or less harsh towards me. They were genuine. And I'm bringing you somewhere where I can show you that I know exactly how you feel, and how I know and understand how you felt during the past 3 years."

"Do you think that is enough to convince me to follow you, or rather, allow myself to be dragged by you?"

"I'm damn well sure it's enough."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I made you curious."

A grin spread across Sherlock's face; he knew he made John curious, and John felt so annoyed that Sherlock's little speech mesmerized him and made him want to be dragged by Sherlock to whatever place he wanted to take him.

"Damn you Sherlock."

John brings his arm up; indicating to Sherlock to grab it again so they can continue and reach the place Sherlock wanted them to reach. Sherlock smiled like a small child who was just given some candy, he knew he had won John over with what he had said. John sighed out of annoyance, no matter what; Sherlock always said something that made him cave. It was so surprising for John at the same time because even the love of his life, Mary, couldn't have this effect on him. Only Sherlock could make him do something no matter how much he didn't want to. John was scared that this could also affect him in the long run with Mary. John decided to push these thoughts aside; because thinking about it all made him panic and he didn't want to see Sherlock coming back into his life as a bad thing.

After going around several bends, running through 3 alleyways and pushing aside countless strangers on the streets, they both finally reached a rather crusty looking flat; it was old and it clearly hadn't been painted in many years due to all the paint that was peeling off, the design of the building clearly indicated it was built in the 80's and the kind of people hanging around the area were the kind you usually see hanging around alleyways and in the underground doing deals and creating problems. Sherlock drags John through the front doors to enter the building, and John gets hit by a foul smell that was most probably coming from one of the near-by rooms. Sherlock practically pulls John up the stairs, which looked as though they would crumble beneath him at any moment. They went up about 10 long flights of stairs before reaching a door which read _"102"_. Sherlock fiddled around his coat pocket for the keys and upon finding them he quickly unlocked the door and pulled John in with him, and just before shutting the door, John observed that Sherlock looked around the floor on which they were on, looking as though he was making sure no one saw them enter, then he shut the door, locked it and turned to smile at John.

"What is this place?"

John observed it was some sort of flat, but he was sure it wasn't Sherlock's because he was sure Sherlock wouldn't allow himself to live in such a place. Well he would, under an odd circumstance, but John was sure that he had a better place to live in than this.

"What do you mean? It's my flat! Isn't it obvious?"

Sherlock makes puts on his smug I-know-I'm-smarter-than-you face and has his How-can-you-be-so-stupid tone of voice.

"And is this" John looks around with a sour face, "What you wanted to show me?"

John was really quite shocked, the flat was atrocious; the furniture looked as though it was pulled out of a rubbish dump, the wallpaper was peeling off the walls, half the place was covered in dust while the other half was covered in Sherlock's experiments. But what really caught John's eye was the pile of papers that covered the floor of the living room, as well as a chair which looked like a rocking chair from what John could tell and possibly a coffee table.

"Why on earth would I want to show my dreary flat? I know you think this place is a dump, and trust me, it is."

"Then why the hell do you live here?! I can't imagine you living in a place like this, considering you have some sort of standards."

"I live here because of you…"

"Because of me? Sherlock that makes no sense whatsoever."

"It should make sense. Honestly John…"

"Don't take that tone with me Sherlock. You already have to clear up plenty of things for me, try making life easier an-"

"Do you think explaining all this makes my life easier?! Do you think it makes me feel better? Do you think I have any easy time watch your face fall when I tell you my reasoning for doing what I did? Do you think it's easy to hear your harsh comments about me acting about my feelings? Do you think the past three years have been _**easy**_ for me? I know how easy they've gotten for you over time, but for me all that happened was that every day I would suffer more, and every day would bring more hurt and pain to me."

"How do you know how easy it has been for me? How do you know anything? Sherlock, you said you'd bring me here to show me something that would make me see you understood how I felt. NO SHOW ME."

"You saw the pile of papers over by the sofa, I presume?"

"Yes what about them?"

"Go pick one up and read it."

"Why should I?"

"Just do it John."

Sherlock had his set and cold tone. John strides over to the pile of papers, picks up one from the floor and begins to read it.

"Oh, and read it aloud, won't you?"

John turns to glare at Sherlock, but does what he says anyway. This is what he read:

"I've decided to stop formally greeting you in these letters, I feel quite foolish for doing so considering the fact that I'm practically addressing a dead person. It's hard not to though, but I suppose after more than a year of you being gone, there really isn't any hope of you being alive, now is there? You'd be laughing, or rather, making fun of me if you would know that I've still had hopes that you're alive somewhere out there instead of lying in that damned hole in the ground. I know what you think of emotions and having them expressed, but like in my many other letters, I feel the need to express them; it hurts Sherlock, when I know that I'm never going to see you again, I'm never going to laugh about ridiculous situations and people with you, I'm never going to be able to solve a case with you again, I'm never going to casually stay in our flat together when we have no case, with you doing some god awful experiment and me reading or writing on my blog about one of our big cases."

As John read it, his voice began to crack, and once again tears chose to well up in his eyes, not just because it was emotional to read this, it was also because he remembered exactly how he felt when he wrote each letter and all he remembers was feeling an ache open up in his chest.

"Can I stop now please?"

"No. Continue."

"I miss you, Sherlock. I say it in every letter because it's unbelievable how much I miss you. I saw Molly on the street today, and she tried coming to talk to me but I avoided her, talking to her just made me remember the cases we solved together and how she helped. Seeing her was enough to remind me of you, and it really hurts that I can't talk to Molly or Lestrade or anyone anymore because they all remind me of you; of us. You'd be surprised to hear I've started dating again, and I met a wonderful woman who helps take my mind off you for a while. She's the closest I've come to forgetting you, so I'm planning on being serious about seeing her. I don't want to forget you, but remembering you only hurts me more, and it makes the ache in my chest widen. I apologise for making this letter one of my many emotional ones, the letters with facts about my life seem to be appearing less and less, which isn't good. I'm just having a bad day, again. I'm deciding whether I should stop going to see my psychiatrist or not. I'm not sure how much she helps; she always insists upon me talking about you, she says it helps release the tension from my mind. I've told her countless times that I don't have tension; I just have a dull ache that throbs all the time. She put me on some antidepressants (which I avoid taking most days). I think it's called Zoloft or Prozac or something. I don't take them really, they don't help, and they just make the ache less meaningful and discomforting."

John stops, he can't continue. He remembers writing this letter, because it was the first time in a while that he had a bad day and he had been crying all day after Mary had cancelled on him due to some dentist appointment.

"Continue John."

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, arms across his lap and he was looking at John with a blank face.

"I… I can't."

"Continue I said."

"AND I SAID I CAN'T! ARE YOU DEAF?!"

John breathes out heavily, attempting to calm himself.

"Look, Sherlock. I can't… It's far too painful to read."

"That's what I wanted to show you."

"What? You wanted to show me it's painful to read my own emotional letter?"

"Do you see how many papers are lying around you right now?"

"Yes, of course. Your point?"

John tried wiping away falling tears from his face as discretely as possible. Sherlock huffs at John's response.

"John, a pigeon would be able to get my point. All those papers are YOUR letters. I have read ALL your letters, over and over and over again. I have followed your emotions the entire time. I had been the one taking your letters from the grave. I took them, read those several times, and then I would deduct the timing for your next letter according to your style and topic of writing and then I would go pick up your letter. You said I can't have the slightest idea how you felt, but I do. The way you write, John, it's captivating and it makes the reader feel what you feel and not only that but I was also suffering being away from the person who had turned out to be the most significant and important person in my life and all that adds up to feeling and suffering even more than you ever did in the past 3 years."

John wasn't sure what to say. He was deciding how he felt about the entire situation.


	8. Chapter 8

"I don't understand you Sherlock."

"No, but you do John, you understand me more than any other person ever has."

"I don't understand…"

"Do you remember, 4 years ago when we came across Irene Adler and she summoned you, or rather, manipulated you into seeing her alive after we were convinced she was dead?"

"Yes, of course. What does that have anything to do with our situation here?"

"You said something when you were there with her, something that made me realize how well you actually pay attention to me and how you understand me. Do you remember what you said?"

"I said many things there Sherlock, and I don't know how much of it you actually heard."

"I heard it all."

"Right, well that doesn't narrow it down at all. What did I say, then?"

"You told her that I respond to everything."

"Ah, yes. I was telling her that even though you never replied to what she texted you, even though you never responded, you responded to everything she ever wrote and it stuck with you because no one had done that to you before and how responded to it in a way that even you didn't understand…"

John fades away; he just realized the point Sherlock was trying to get across. Sherlock didn't have to say anything to John in order to explain what he was trying to say; Even though Sherlock read all his letters and didn't do anything about it, even though in the moment John found out he was reading his letters he wished Sherlock would have responded somehow, Sherlock responded to everything he wrote. Sherlock was more fragile that he himself thought, and John wouldn't have said such things to his face for two reasons; the first being that Sherlock never really invested himself into listening to people's emotions, and the second reason was that if Sherlock would have listened, it could have left a much heavier effect on Sherlock than it would have left on a normal person. Sherlock cut off John's thinking process by speaking.

"I know what you're thinking, and you're right. Just like I responded to that woman and her insistent, flirtatious texting, I responded to you and your heartfelt letters. I know that deep down, I'm much more fragile than I appear on the outside, and you know that things like that affect me much greater than they would affect a normal, and fairly idiotic person."

John lets out a short laugh; even when trying to be emotional, Sherlock somehow finds a place to call a person who isn't him, idiotic.

"Look Sherlock, I don't understand why we are even talking about this."

"Isn't it what people say after such a long time? Aren't we supposed to talk about this? Didn't you want us to talk about this?"

Sherlock looked so confused, he thought, for once in his life, he was actually doing something socially correct, and being a somewhat normal human being trying to talk about _feelings_. He thought that he was helping clarify everything to John, instead he could see how confused he was making John; the way John lifted his eyebrows at him, the way John's arms were crossed over his chest, indicating he had no interest to listen to what Sherlock had to say anymore, or maybe just blocking himself from feeling all emotional, the way that his face was tired and worn and somewhat lost in what was going on.

"Yes, it is Sherlock, but you don't know how timing works. You never have. I need us to talk about things other than emotions, and I need to you to understand once and for all, that I'm not going to forgive you just because you get a little more emotional on me; too much time has passed for that to work. I thought you would have figured that out by now because you're Mister I-can-deduct-anything. I need time Sherlock, I need time to forgive you, or to think about forgiving you."

"But I thought that I was important to you…"

"You are, but that's why I need time Sherlock! Why am I even explaining this to you? You don't know how any of this is supposed to work; you only know how everything else in the world works. I need time, just like you needed time to decide to expose yourself to me. You're not the only one in the world who is allowed time to think about things."

John throws his letter to the side, and Sherlock watches it land on the large pile of letters John had written. Sherlock could feel a small part of him die; John had to think about considering forgiving him and things were far from being OK. Sherlock wanted to cry again, he felt so upset, and he felt so… so stupid. For the first time in his life, he felt stupid. Sherlock didn't know what to do; he was lost in a sea of emotion which he didn't understand. There was nothing there to guide him out, no experience to help him out.

John headed for the door; he felt so angry with Sherlock. What right did he have to bring him here after what just happened at 221B, and show him all the letters he had written? How dare he bring up emotions he had buried deep in his mind for so long, that he had almost forgotten them. Yes, he missed Sherlock, but he got over the throbbing pain, and yes even though sometimes that dull throb would re-appear Mary would make it better. Now not even the most powerful force on earth, the holiest, a force that saves all from despair and lost hope wouldn't be able to get him out of the flood of emotions he was drowning in; nothing could help him.

"John, where are you going? John!"

Sherlock stood in the corner of his flat watching John leave. Why was he leaving? No, no don't leave. I can't watch you leave. Please John… Please.

"I'm leaving Sherlock. I need time on my own, lots of time. I need to think about this, and I also need to talk to some people. I have to go talk to Lestrade as well. I just can't be here; it's too early for all this Sherlock! I know that you're thinking that everything should be fine now, but it's not."

John feels guilty for being so harsh on Sherlock, but he had to. John looked to Sherlock; his face was so sullen, so lost, so… unwanted.

Sherlock knew how he looked to John, but he didn't care. All he cared about was how he felt; unwanted and so alone. Sherlock the great detective, one of the greatest minds of our time, alone again. The tears were screaming to come pouring out of his eyes again, and he succumbed to them.

"Oh god, don't cry again Sherlock. You may not understand all this, but you need to accept it. I can't express how I feel in words and the actions that would explain them wouldn't be very pleasant ones. I just want you to have one more letter before I leave for a while, Sherlock. The last letter I would have written to you, the one I was going to put on your grave before I saw your yellow letter. I have it with me, here in my coat, all scrunched up from being angry and sad and hurt."

Out of his coat pocket, he pulls a crumpled white letter, and walks over to hand it to Sherlock. Sherlock takes in numbly into his hands.

"Last letter?"

"I thought you were dead, and I knew eventually I had to move on with my life. When I wrote that letter, I had made the decision to move on. In that letter I explain everything. Now that you're back, I can't move on, I never will move on, and don't want to move on. I just need time to see how I will handle all this. You're still so important to me, but I need to handle my own mental state before I can run off with you to solve more cases. I'm giving this letter to you in order for you to understand the implications of what you've done, and how I felt and then maybe you'll finally understand why I'm so angry with you right now."

John looks Sherlock straight into his teary, red and hurt eyes. Sherlock knew that this was a goodbye from John, at least for now. John gives Sherlock a short, blunt head nod and then walks to the door, opens it ever so slowly and turns to look at Sherlock once more before walking out the door.

'My turn to say goodbye Sherlock.' John thought. He knew the goodbye wouldn't be forever, but it would be for a while. He didn't want to do this, but he had to. He couldn't look at Sherlock for too long though; Sherlock's face was so hurt and lost that it made John want to cry. He turns and walks out the door leaving Sherlock standing alone in his flat with letter in hand, feeling so hurt that all he can do is lay down the letter, got to his violin and begin to play, to compose.

Soon Sherlock gets bored with playing, he walks over to the kitchen and picks up the cigarettes he kept stashed in a drawer. He lights one, inhaling the smoke ever so deeply as though it was his last breath and was savouring it.

'Not enough.' Sherlock thought as he finished off his pack.

The entire apartment was filled with smoke, reeking of strong, tar-filled cigarettes. He needed more, something even stronger, but for that he would have to head down a road he had been avoiding for years. Sherlock was hesitant. He looked towards the letter John had given him a few days back. He had been playing violin for days, and slowly smoking for an entire day. Sherlock was afraid to read the letter, he had been avoiding it. Sherlock knew he had two options; to either turn to contacts to pertain drugs or read the letter. Most people would see it as a simple decision, but for Sherlock is was either feel emotionally compromised or get high. Sherlock goes to pick up the letter, tears it open, and begins to read it.

The letter read:

"Sherlock,

I think this is going to be one of the hardest letters I have ever had to write to you, but it must be done, for both of us. I need to finally move on with my life, and even though I know you're dead I need you to know how I feel, Sherlock.

I'm getting married, Sherlock. _Married_. The man who couldn't keep a girlfriend for more than a few months is getting married to a woman who is absolutely amazing and has been able to handle me and my problems for so long and not given up on me. I need to focus on her and me now, and as much as it hurts me to write this, I need to begin to forget about you. Now I'm not saying I need to forget about the memories I have of you, and of us, but I need to forget about YOU. I need to forget about the fall, the pain, the hurt, the wave of emotions that come from all that, the throbbing pain that comes from everything. I can't live with that for the rest of my life; if I would I would drive myself insane. I know that if you'd be here, you'd want me to move on and have a good life; you would want me to enjoy my life and live it to its fullest. I know this much is true. I don't want to live in a world of pain anymore, I haven't seen the world in vibrant colours since you died, but Mary has slowly been pouring them back in, and the final step to let a wave of colour finally enter into my life is by letting go of the painful memories of you. I miss you loads, Sherlock and you were the closest and best friend I have ever had the pleaser of having.

This is my final letter because I know it's not going to be as if you rise from the grave anytime soon so there's no point holding on anymore. Where ever you are, Sherlock, take care. I know you're dead, but I know you're somewhere annoying someone else with you and your brilliance. I won't let your memory die, I won't let anyone have a bad opinion of you, or believe the crap told about you. I'll raise your name to the highest peak and place it there where it belongs. A man like you Sherlock deserved more than you got, and I'll make sure that your memory will receive that, even though you hadn't. I don't care what you've said about you not being a hero, not being a good man. Yes you had your faults, who doesn't? Sure, they may have been more pronounced but after all the good you did, I don't see how they should matter. You WERE a good man, Sherlock. Your brother once said something to me; "My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?" And maybe after all this time, I can answer that even if it may not be true; you care. Deep down you care, and want to help. You may not be the hero but you are far from being the villain, my friend.

Sherlock Holmes; the greatest man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, I salute you.

You will never be forgotten in the eyes of those who love you.

John H. Watson "


	9. Chapter 9

Weeks pass and Sherlock receives no sign from John; not a single message, not a single call, not even some sort of sign in form of a letter or post or even e-mail. A big bunch of nothing. Sherlock felt so hurt, and scared. Was John really done with him? Had we brought John to his limits and lost all chances of getting him back? Sherlock didn't know what to do, this never happened to him before. Well it had on a few occasions but he never took it to heart; those people never really mattered to him. This was different, because he cared so much about John he couldn't afford to lose him, especially because of his own doing, Sherlock would never be able to live with that fact. He was willing to change in order for John to return to him again; he would be willing to accept his future wife with open arms, to change his attitude towards the entire situation, he would be willing to do anything that John deemed socially acceptable to do at such a point in their relationship. Sherlock pondered in these thoughts as the weeks stretched on without a single sign from John.

Sherlock had read John's supposed last letter hundreds of times, and the when he had read it for the first time he had tears streaming down his face; never in his life had someone described him in such a… a beautiful and gentle way. No one had ever given him such huge a compliment as John had given him in that letter. Sometimes Sherlock would go sit on the sofa, or lye on it, and think about what John wrote; in John's eyes, he was more of a hero than the people he fought with in the war, in John's eyes he was a man to be admired and respected and even though he had his faults, they shouldn't get in the way of his brilliance. All this brought a smile to Sherlock's face, and tears to his eyes. For the first time in his life he felt loved; he felt wanted. The feeling of being wanted to Sherlock was completely new; he felt so warm on the inside, like someone was hugging his insides making the cold harshness ebb away and making himself melt into this happy feeling that enclosed around him. Sherlock felt his lips rise, his mouth curve into a big cheesy smile because of it, even though he had no intention of doing so. Sherlock walks to the bathroom, where he looks in the mirror to see a man of emotion. Before he had met John, his face was enclosed in a mask of distain and cold-heartedness; emotions were useless to him, he saw no point in understanding them. What use were they? Did they save anyone's life? No, so why should he bother. Did it make a bad situation better? No, so why should they matter. Then, after coming across John, he began to see how emotions can help, and how emotions can break someone down and allow them into the depths of their mind. At first Sherlock saw it as a perfect key for deducting further into the mind of someone, and finding their weak points but then after a while Sherlock had seen how it can also allow himself to be brought into a whole other world that he had not previously seen around him. Sherlock had always known what feeling hurt felt like; all the people shouting abuse at him for being different, all the people who shunned him because of his ignorance of basic social skills, but he got used to it. He thought that because of that he also knew what pain was; how very wrong he was. He only truly understood what pain meant when he had to leave John for so long, and he was convinced for a while that he would never be around John again, never be around his only one true friend ever again.

These thoughts swiveled around his mind; turning them around and around, and always going back to the mirror to watch his face. How it had changed, his features were softer, not so harsh anymore. His face looked hurt, and tired, his eyes red from tears, lips dry from no care, eyes torn, deep and tired from so much pain and cheeks flushed with red, from emotions that sprung up and made him laugh or cry. His eyes were no longer distant and cold, like no soul was there, now all you could see in his eyes was a troubled and hurt soul, trying to crawl its way out from the rubble under which it had been buried and flooding his eyes with such emotion. Sherlock would stare into his eyes for hours, just watching them twinkle with the light of hope that John would find it in him to forgive what he had done. Sherlock quite liked to think of his eyes as Pandora's box; filled with so much bad, yet somewhere in there was hope, a small twinkle in it. Even though Sherlock knew it wasn't an accurate analogy, it was the best way he could describe his eyes, and himself.

Sherlock was getting desperate after quite a while; still no sign from John. He had tried to call him, message him, e-mail him, even try to find ways to send him letters to his office; nothing. Sherlock had run out of ideas, he was in no mood to deduct John's area of living. One day while working on an experiment he remembered; John's blog. Sherlock figured it was a long shot, but he could always try contacting John through it. As fast as he could, Sherlock rushed to his laptop, and typed in John's blog URL, and to his surprise he found and entry posted no less than 12 hours before:

"**The Yellow Letter**

It feels so odd writing on this blog after 3 years of not having even come close to touching it, but what I have had happen to me in the past weeks has really made me desperate.

The man I thought to be dead, lying in a cold, unloving grave had appeared out of nowhere and showed himself to me just a month before."

Sherlock read and entire page essay on what John had written; talking about the Yellow Letter, the scene at 221B, him and his emotions, the way everything was over-emotional, how he had brought him back to his flat and showed him the letters, and how he had left him with the last letter and hasn't contacted him since.

"And now my dear readers, if there is anyone who is still bothering to read this bloody thing even though it's been dormant for 3 bloody years, I am left with a dilemma; to forgive this man who I hold so dearly to my heart and respect so highly in my mind or to leave him be in his own emotions and to suffer like he made me suffer? Part of me wants to make him suffer; to make him see what hellish ordeals I got to go through during his absence but I know for a fact that brilliant man suffered too, even more so than me. Forgive and forget, that's what they say but honestly I don't know if I could ever forget what he did to me, no matter his reasoning. But after thinking about the entire situation, I admire this man far too much to shove him out of my life forever, and I feel too bad for him to do so; all he has ever had was himself, no one to turn to in times of loneliness, cast out of society because of his amazing skills at deduction and his genius and then I come along and seem to life him up from some state of shadows and iciness into a world filled with more warmth and feelings and I don't know how true this is, but I think I brought him into light; the light of emotions, meaningful memories, meaningful people… I always thought he deserved more after he "died". I felt as though the world treated him harshly without a real cause, yes the man can be a really annoying prick sometimes, but who isn't? If I shun him out from my life, then wouldn't that make me like the rest of them? A cold hearted man who gets annoyed with Sherlock Holmes and instead of owning up to the fact that he is a genius and has the abilities to deduct so quickly I just push him away labeling him as some sort of freak.

Sherlock has been the greatest man I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, and it would be painful to voluntarily strip him from my life. I have plenty to solve with the man, and he knows it, but seeing how the years have changed him, I'm sure he would be more willing to accept the fact that we have problems that need to be addressed.

Many may have seen him as a crazy man, fake genius, obnoxious prick etc. but he is so much more than that, and always will be the greatest man in the world."

Sherlock stares at the post for a good long hour before lifting his head from the screen in order to sit in his usual thinking pose; hands together under his chin. The amount of respect he had for John could not be described in words, and even actions would be hard to describe them but Sherlock knew that if John really saw him this way, then he should be the one to go to John, and demand that they sort things out and continue on together; both of them facing the world together once again. Yes, Mary was there too, but it would be him and John again, and if Mary were to come along, as long as John would be there everything would be ok.

John wanted to make a fresh post on his blog; it felt so good writing on it after 3 years. He was surprised at the response his latest post had been; several comments and hundreds of new views. He wished he could be happier about it than he really was. John was sitting in front of his laptop on his desk, staring at his blog, thinking of what to write next. He sat there, and sat there but nothing other than Sherlock's face when he left the apartment many weeks ago came to mind. All he could think about was his latest post and how he was too cowardly to say something like that to Sherlock's face. Hours pass, and he forgets about time and his blog and ends up sitting in his chair until nightfall, thinking of ways to approach Sherlock and tell him that all he wants is to mend everything and move on. Deep down, John yearned for just him and Sherlock to go off and solve crazy cases again.

Early in the morning, John finds himself awakened by the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard; he was still in his study. He must have fallen asleep there and Mary must have thought he was just busy working which is why she hadn't woken him. He shifts his position in his chair and groans; his neck and back ached from sleeping in a hard office chair all night.

"Mary, why didn't you wake me last night? The bed would have been lovely to sleep on, especially knowing you're there."

John grins at his last comment; he thought himself quite clever for saying something of the sort. The person who responds to him is the last person he expected to be in his house.

"John, either you need glasses or you've gone insane because clearly I'm not Mary."

John jumps out of his sleepy state, and his chair.

"Sherlock?"

"Who else could it be?" Sherlock says with a rather exasperated sigh.

"Who else could it be?" John was annoyed. "For one it could be my FIANCE considering she LIVES WITH ME UNLIKE YOU."

"Why would you think Mary is sitting here typing on your laptop while you sleep in an uncomfortable looking chair? Really John, you are quite foolish in thinking so."

"FOOLISH? I BLOODY WELL LIVE WITH MARY AND EXCUSE ME FOR NOT THIKING YOU WOULD BE IN MY HOUSE AT SUCH AN EARLY HOUR IN THE MORNING."

John was fuming; no matter how much he wanted to amend his relationship with Sherlock, he was so angry that he considered him stupid for not knowing it was him in the first place.

"How did you get in anyway? Crawl in through the window?"

"As a matter of fact your lovely fiancé let me in. She is quite the catch, and not dull nor stupid. Fairly good choice, for you I mean."

"I don't believe you. She doesn't KNOW you, she would let some random bloke into the house."

"No, she wouldn't. But she would if I said that I was a patient of yours who needed desperate attention and you gave me your address in case of an emergency."

"No. You did not lie to my wife saying you were a patient of mine."

"So what if I did? Isn't it better than telling her the truth?"

"I would rather you tell her that you were my best friend risen from the grave than tell her you were a patient to whom I gave my ADDRESS to!"

"What illogical thinking you have. Tell me John, how do you live with yourself? I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I thought that was a better idea than mine."

"Sherlock, I am in no mood for you and your condescending attitude."

"I don't have a condescending attitude, I'm simply being honest."

"When YOU'RE honest, to everyone else you are just condescending."

"How ridiculous…"

"Look Sherlock, why the hell are you here at such an ungodly hour? More importantly, _how did you find out where I live?_"

"Do you honestly think it was that hard for me to find out where you live? I simply called your assistant at your office yesterday and got the address from her saying I was a patient in need of immediate consultation due to a major problem only you could solve, and knowing your work hours were over she would be concerned; at first she attempted to direct me to the hospital but I said that only you could help, so I knew by saying that and sounding desperate as well as very ill she would give me your home address. And as for your first question, I'm here to make amends."

"You're telling me my trusted assistant gave you classified information?"

"John, you're a simple doctor, not a government agent so using the word classified is really quite silly and rather pointless. And yes, she did because I used basic psychological methods on her in order to procure such information."

John huffed out in annoyance; only Sherlock could and would manage to do something like this.

"You said you want to make amends?"

"Yes… I read your recent blog entry. I also read your letter many weeks back."

Sherlock puts down John's laptop and goes to stand up close to the now standing John.

"You have described me in a way no person has or most probably ever will describe me. You made me seem like the most amazing and wonderful man on Earth. Never have I ever seen someone admire and respect me as you do, and never have I ever seen anyone so concerned for me and my _emotions_. You are the first person to have really peeled away my layers to see what's underneath and you haven't run away from it. I know I'm the one to blame for the situation we are in, and I should be the one explaining everything to you."


	10. Chapter 10

John laughs at Sherlock.

"What finally made you decide to explain everything to me, Sherlock? Did you have some wonderful, genius epiphany during these stretched out weeks that finally brought you to your odd senses to come here and explain everything to me?"

John had a rather mocking tone; he was angry at Sherlock for taking so long to reach this point in his mind and he had half a mind to send Sherlock out because of his own annoyance.

"Maybe I did… You know how I am with all this, John… Cut me some slack by the least with all this emotional ridiculousness."

"Cut you some slack? HA! When did you ever cut me slack when we were on those bloody goose chases of yours and you would seem to internally fume if I would get something wrong? Yes, I know how bad you are with emotions and the rules that come along with them but no, I won't cut you slack in any case."

"I never internally fumed at you, John. Sure, I thought you were quite idiotic most of the time but the fact that you were there already made me stop feeling angry towards you. And you and I both know that I think 99.9% of the people I come across are idiots."

Both Sherlock and John smile at what was just said.

"And another thing John; I know how angry you are at me from not having come to such a realization earlier, even when you practically screaming it to me many weeks before-hand. I just want you to know that I'm willing to lay it all out on the table right here, right now. Send me away and I'll never turn back. I know how much I've hurt you, and more than that disappointed you, and for me to have done it for the umpteenth time…"

Sherlock trails off. He found it hard to breathe thinking about how much pain he put John through.

"I wouldn't want to make it a habit. Send me away now, and I will go away forever. I see how angry you are now –"

"How? How do you bloody see?"

John thought he was very passive in his expressions and mannerisms that Sherlock wouldn't notice.

"What a stupid question, John. Do you honestly think I can fall for your passive behavior? You are acting far too calm for such a situation; even a good actor would have some form of emotion to the entire thing. The fact that you are quite, your eyes cold and hard-set, mouth in a straight line, arms folded across your chest; everything indicates how angry you feel."

"Fair enough… Can't argue with that. Okay, I won't send you away. I don't want you to never turn back, but if you are willing to explain everything, then I don't want any twisted truths or white lies, I don't need to be protected from anything. The psychological damage is already done to me, no crazy story or horrible truth has been able to phase me since your 'death'. Nothing you say will shock me, believe you me."

John was very serious. He sat back down in his chair that served as a bed during the night. He winced slightly sitting down; certain muscles were screaming at him for sitting in that damn chair again.

Sherlock saw how his right leg was slightly stiff upon sitting down in the chair once more; that damn leg, thought Sherlock. Sherlock wondered if he would ever be able to affect John in a way like he used to and rid John of his limp.

"Sherlock, could you please sit? I want it to be a relaxed conversation an-"

"No. I need to stand. John, this is going to be a far from relaxed conversation. You say nothing can shock you, but I doubt it. Psychologically you may be damaged but that can't stop you from being shocked or surprised by what I am about to explain."

"But whatever you will explain will be the entire truth and nothing but the truth, yes?"

Sherlock was silent. He dared not say that he was about to twist the truth so that t wouldn't sound as though he so willingly kept John out of the loop of his plans. He knew that would be the last straw for John and he would dismiss Sherlock… Forever. Sherlock shivered at such a thought. Luckily he covered his shiver with a swift shift in position; he smiled coyly at John.

"First, I think it would be best if I explain everything first, then you ask questions after."

"No, we do it my way or you can get out."

Sherlock stared at John for a good long minute.

"John, you need to understand everything before questionin-"

"No!" John rises from his chair and goes straight up to Sherlock's face, their noses almost touching. "I have waited damn long enough for my questions to be answered Sherlock! I ask, you answer, and whatever explaining or stories that have to be done can wait until after you have explained everything _**I**_ want explained."

Damn, Sherlock thought. John was clever, but he dared not admit it.

"Why?"

"WHY? Like I said, I've waited damn long enough for my questions to be answered. And secondly I know your little mind games well enough. I know how you can twist the explanation and the story without me noticing. By asking my own questions, you can't twist them so damn much."

Clever but not clever enough, Sherlock thought quickly to himself; 'I can still twist it the way I want because I can follow through with a story well enough. I'm still the genius here.' Sherlock said to himself in his mind. Sherlock grinned, a wide and foxy grin.

"Very well… Ask away."

Satisfied, John sits back down with a slump, grinning at himself for having thought outsmarting Sherlock for once.

"Good. First question: Why was I the only one left out of your loop? Why did you let everyone else in on it? Let's forget about Lestrade for a second, because we both know that he isn't super important in this picture, even though you consider him quite a good man. Yet again, how can I be sure you never let him in on it too?"

Sherlock was quite stunned at John's first question. He never expected John to ask such a question straight off the bat. He saw John, tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm rest of the chair, waiting for his reply. Sherlock begins to speak, spilling out words like a pot would spill out its tea; ever so cleanly and delicately, flowing out of it.

"To start off; it hurt to leave you out of the loop. I didn't want to but it had to be done. I left everyone else in, apart from Lestrade, because they wouldn't be as emotionally compromised as you. You see John, I knew what effect I had on you ever since I knew you would leave your cane at the restaurant within the first few days of us meeting. From that moment I knew I would change your life, little did I know you would change mine. The difference between me and you in this situation was that I can hold back my emotions no matter how much it hurts in any situation; it's just the way I am. You on the other hand, cannot. Yes you had been in combat, and yes you had suffered a great ordeal but that doesn't mean you can hold back such powerful emotions as the ones that welled up after you thought me dead. When I was at the graveyard, when I said I saw you there, I had half a mind to come and let you in on it, but after seeing you cry at me grave, after seeing you hurt like you did, I just couldn't… I knew that showing you I was alive would send relief running through your body and mind, and that people wouldn't believe I was dead. I needed people to believe I was dead John! Everyone was watching you after I 'died' John, and if they would have seen how calm you were about everything, they would have suspected something. You are far from a good actor, and you wouldn't have been able to hold up any fake emotions to the matter no matter how much I would have explained. To have seen you break down in the way you did showed me how emotionally compromised you were, just like me. Difference was that no one was watching me, at least not anymore. I couldn't risk it. You meant, and mean to much to me to have let certain people get to you, or even kill you."

John cuts in.

"What people needed to believe you were dead?!"

"Moriarty's people. I'm sure you know by now, John that I was up on that roof with Moriarty. I had a long talk with him about how he did what he did and why he needed to do all that to me. In the end he just was bored with life, John. He saw me as a distraction, his equal. He thought I was just like him…"

"And are you?"

"More than you know, John. More than you know… In the end I showed him that, we shook hands and then he killed himself. Don't think I didn't want to kill him while we were on the roof, so I could have ended it all and stayed alive, but he had snipers on you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He wanted me to kill myself. You want to know why all those assassins were living near us at the time? They were there under Moriarty's orders, and when the time came, they were to aim their guns at you three until they got word that I was dead, or that Moriarty called them off. When Moriarty told me this, I prevented myself from killing that man… I thought if I had him alive I wouldn't have to jump, that I could save myself. I was wrong. I showed him what he wanted to see and told him what he wanted to hear and the man knew that by killing himself he would still get what he wants in the end…"

"Which was?"

"My death. And he did, or so he thought. While you were on your way to the hospital a sniper was aimed at you, ready to shoot if they saw I wasn't jumping or getting word from Moriarty. I knew the longer I waited, the closer they were to shooting you. So when you arrived, I called you, gave you my note and jumped. That was the only way to keep you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson alive. I'll admit it; when I was talking to you on the roof, I cried… Tears came streaming down my face for the first time in what were many years. It hurt to have to say good-bye John… It felt as though someone was ripping something out of me; tearing it away with force and no mercy and me just having to watch because I knew there was nothing I could do but watch it get ripped out. As though I was pinned down, no control and had no choice."

"How long had you known that you had to kill yourself until you did so?"

Sherlock admired how fast John had caught on. He could hear how dead John sounded while speaking. He knew that John was in shock, and rather numb due to all that he had heard.

"A little less than 12 hours."

John held his chin in his hand, thinking about everything Sherlock said. He looked up to meet the vibrant, amazing eyes of Sherlock staring down at him. What John saw in his eyes was pure pain, and aching. Nothing else filled those eyes which gleamed with the colours of the entire universe. Such beautiful eyes filled with such an ugly, painful twinkle of pain and tears. He could see how bringing up such memories hurt like hell for Sherlock.

"Was it when we got out of that bloody reporter's house? When you decided to go off on your own somewhere for a while for no reason whatsoever?"

Sherlock remained silent. He knew that would be a solid enough answer for John. He looked John in the eyes and decided to give a short and discrete nod.

"I went to talk with Molly in order to help me. I asked her help, I needed her help. I needed her; which is why Molly was let in on the entire ordeal. She can be horribly annoying and childish most of the time, but she matters too… And no matter how horrible I had been to her in the past, she helped me none the less. We arranged everything and set it in place. I knew the exact time I would bring Moriarty to St. Barts, how long it would take to talk with him and where I would jump from. The plan changed slightly when I thought I could live, found out I had to 'kill myself' in the end and panicked. I was never meant to call you, or say good-bye or stay too long on the roof top. But I did because I could let you just find me dead, and I also wanted a witness to it all."

"So that explains Molly… What about Mrs. Hudson? And how were you so sure Molly wouldn't be emotionally compromised? Everyone knew she was quite infatuated with you."

"Yes, she was, but she knew it had to be done, and why. I explained it all to her, said my good-bye when everything was arranged, and told her that one day I'll be back, and not to be upset. I told her something else that made her feel better, that I should have told her quite a while back."

"Which was?"

"She had always mattered to me, no matter how little I showed it. She had always been a good friend to me… Oh and Mrs. Hudson is very good with acting. Remember when you thought she was actually upset about those Americans coming and beating her up? Ha! Now that was a laugh, that woman knows to act. If and when it was necessary to act upset about my entire ordeal she could do it without a problem."

John felt a little silly for not having realized all of this when he had spent hours sitting at home thinking of all the reason Sherlock left him out. He had always thought he never mattered too much to Sherlock in the end, so he couldn't care less about him. How wrong he had been. It was the complete opposite. He had mattered so much to him; he even caused Sherlock to cry for the first time in years. John sighs deeply and out of the blue he begins to weep.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock stares at John in amazement.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks in a somewhat amazed tone. He didn't understand how something such as their conversation could bring a man who had been at war, to tears.

"It's not a wonder" John says between choking back quite sobs, "That you have no friends."

Sherlock turns cold as this remark. He feels hurt by John saying such a thing. He briefly glances down at the floor as he allows the hurt flash across his eyes, breaking eye contact with John so he can't see it. He quickly turns to look at the sad, crying John in the eyes but now with a cold, somewhat killer look in his eyes; John had said similar things to him before of this manner, but never in such a direct way. He felt rather insulted.

"Care to elaborate?" Snaps Sherlock, turning into his tantrum-like state.

"Oh, don't be like that Sherlock. You now I didn't bloody well mean it in that way. Don't even think about going off on one of your childish tantrums."

This infuriated Sherlock more. How dare John call him childish?! Or rather, say that he has childish tantrums. He may go slightly overboard with his attitude sometimes, rest assured that he knows that, but he was far from childish. Sherlock narrows his eyes at John, crosses his arms over his chest rather annoyed, and turns his body away from John, towards the door indicating he is in no mood to hear any more of John's sad babblings.

John had ceased his out-of-character sobbing and was drying the tears from his face, turning rather red at the fact he allowed such emotions bubble to the surface in the presence of Sherlock. John felt as though it made him even more vulnerable to Sherlock and his deductions and observations on his feelings and what not. He noticed Sherlock's change in posture; from 'I'm willing to listen to what you have to say and tell you everything you need to know' to 'You insulting bastard I don't want to listen to you anymore as you are too low for my genius intellect at this point in time and according to my annoyed mood'.

"Sherlock" John's voice had turned quite stern. "You can't honestly believe I meant that in a joking-matter-of-fact manner?"

Sherlock was silent. He was staring at the door know, having half a mind to stomp out of there.

"Sherlock, answer me."

Still, Sherlock refused to answer. This led John to get rather infuriated with him.

"Damn it, Sherlock! Answer my bloody question and stop acting like such a child!"

John knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment it flew out of his mouth. The last remark infuriated the already annoyed Sherlock to a point that he stood up abruptly, flicked his coat around himself, knocking over some pencil holders and other stationary in the process and roughly opening the door, glaring at John one last time before slamming it shut and leaving the house. John heard Sherlock slam the front door shut on his way out.

"Fuck" said John. "Well done, John. You had him here, willing to talk to you and you go and make a remark that you know turns him into a bloody child and you don't do anything to stop him leaving. Well bloody done." He angrily mutters to himself.

Sherlock was storming down the street, and if you would have seen him that day, you would have seen a slim man with a special aura surrounding him, practically strutting down the street in his long coat, open and the ends flying in the wind, hitting people in the legs, his blue, tattered scarf blowing around his neck and his curly hair bouncing up and down, and his face, scrunched up and annoyed and if you would have been able to look into his eyes; hurt.

Instead of heading to his old, must apartment he heads to 221B, knowing it would be empty. He marches through the front door, stomps up the stairs and throws open the door to their, or rather now, his apartment and slumps on the black sofa, which had been kept well by Mrs. Hudson during the years. And there Sherlock stays, for hours and hours, in his usual thinking position, knowing no one is going to disturb him anytime soon.

John had been able to get hold of Sherlock's number through his secretary which Sherlock called in order to pertain his address. He made sure his secretary kept track of all the numbers that called in case he would ever need to call a number back. He was praising his genius when he went to obtain Sherlock's number the next morning. Marching into the office, he smiles at the woman, Sally, and goes up to her desk.

"How are you today, Sally?" He asks, smiling politely at her.

"Quite well, Dr. Watson. And yourself?"

"Very good, very good…"

Silence ensues the conversation for a while. It was awkward as John felt odd for asking for that number, worried Sally might suspect something, although he wasn't quite sure what she could suspect.

"Look, Sally. I know I told you to keep track of all numbers that call here."

"Yes."

"Now is the time when this will actually come of use and your work on that will not be wasted. I need you to give me the number that called here the night before last which inquired as to my address. I hope it's not too difficult to find?"

She smiles, "Oh no, Dr. Watson. It's actually quite easy to find. It was a very odd hour to call me seeing as I was just about to leave. I wrote down the number the moment I saw it seeing as the time of night was really quite ridiculous. It is as though the person who called didn't understand the meaning of "office hours" even if it was an emergency. I say he should have gone straight to the hospital, but he was so insistent and persuasive, well with a sexy voice like that how can you NOT be persuasive…"

Hmph, thought John. Why did some women think Sherlock had a sexy voice? Did he have a sexy voice? John wondered for a minute and then remembered what he was supposed to be doing.

"Yes, yes. Sexy voice blah blah blah. Look could you please hand me the number?"

"Are you sure it's this number you want? How can you be sure?"

"Oh, I'm sure. The way you described the way he talked to you sounds exactly like Sher-, err I mean my patient."

He was afraid to mention his name to her; she had been one of the people who knew about the death of Sherlock and had even mentioned it to him a few times before he forbid the subject in the office.

"If you say so."

She rummaged around some papers before pulling out a small slip which contained the number he was looking for. He thanked her, told her not to let in any patients for another half hour, and went to his consulting room to try to call Sherlock.

He sat down and pulled out his phone and dialed the number. Putting the phone to his ear he heard it ring out. No answer the first time round. Typical Sherlock, he huffed. He tried several more times before he gave up. He had run out of time anyway as the first patient starting knocking on his door. He let the issues slip to the back of his mind as he got into his doctor mode.

Sherlock had heard his phone ring around 10 times. John, he thought. No one else calls him. At least no one else calls him that much. He was refusing to answer as he still felt hurt but what John said. Sherlock was still in his coat and scarf, having only thrown off his shoes and gloves a few hours after having arrived. He was now lying on the sofa in his thinking position. He could think so much better on this sofa than in his horrible musty flat downtown. He decides to shift his thoughts from the careless and annoying John Watson for a while after the phone has stopped ringing. Instead he turned to his scarf.

He had had this scarf for many years already, as anyone would be able to tell by looking at it; it was tattered, frayed at the edges, and bits of the knitted blue wool were beginning to stick out of it. It had sentimental value to him; one of the only sentimental things he held onto. John had asked Sherlock about the scarf a few times before and even offered to buy him a new one but he refused both to answer John's question and to get a new scarf. John gave up, and Sherlock was pleased. He hadn't wanted John to see the super soft side of him; the vulnerable side.

He had received this scarf as a gift in his last year of University. It was quite an odd thing to receive from someone he didn't know. He had received it from a sort of "pen-pal". Someone one day had decided to write him a note and slip it into his dorm, reading:

"_People may think you're bloody annoying, but I think you're damn brilliant."_

It was an odd thing for him to receive and he found it rather silly, but it also made him smile. He didn't have any friends in University seeing as he would go off telling people about their lives and pissing them off within the first five minutes of meeting him. He stayed in his dorm alone, studied alone, ate alone, and slept alone. The last part didn't bother him much really, women had never been his area anyways, and social interaction hadn't ever been his area actually. Everyone was far too foolish for him. So a note like this had been very odd. The next day after having received this letter he got another one, having been placed in the same place the last one had been:

"_I know the last note made you smile, sort of. You may think this odd, I know, but I speak the truth. But you already know that from the way I'm writing this. If you're as good as I think, you might have even narrowed down who this is from."_

Sherlock smiled properly now, for this person was right. He had narrowed it down to 3 people, 1 was a man and 2 were women. And he knew they weren't playing a joke on him or lying seeing as their handwriting was straightforward and clean. This set him off to write a letter to the person in return so he could officially pin down the person sending these to him.

"_You appear to be a smart person, seeing as you know my ways of deducting already. I may know who you are and I may not. You're quite a funny person for sending me such a note. What made you do it?"_

He carefully placed it in the hall, on a stand which he made sure was coated in dust thick enough for him to be able to find out who this was. He placed it there, addressed to _"Mystery"_ seeing as he wasn't sure of the sex yet and went back to his dorm, knowing that by morning it would be gone.

The next morning he awoke to a new note under his door. He ran out to the stand on which he placed the letter. It was open, but not gone. The dust had been swept away, cleanly with no marks left. He grinned. This person knew what he wanted to do. He read the note:

"_Mr. Holmes. I won't make this that easy for you. Clever you trying to use the dust to find out whom I am but I'm smarter than that. Don't think you'll find fingerprints either, I made sure to be cautious of that too. I'm a clever person, Mr. Holmes. As you are too and the only reason you don't know who I am is possible for two reasons: One could be that I'm simply cleverer than you, or two, you think you're the only one around here who is a genius. The thing is Mr. Holmes, one of us doesn't go around showing off in the manner you do, and so many people see one of us as incompetent."_

He read over that letter countless times. Who was appearing to be incompetent? Everyone was just naturally incompetent rather than pretending? He doubted this person was cleverer; of course this was his pride talking. The formality of the letter, as well as the arrogance and professionalism of this person showed that they wanted to play a little game. And so the game was on. For the duration of the year they exchanged notes and bantered on about different topics, and Sherlock racked his brains to find out who this was. He tried so many different things to catch this person, but alas, he failed each time. It was interesting how this mystery person hid their identity so well, and how they even taught Sherlock some lessons, which later on in life, helped him. In a way Sherlock liked this; he felt as though he had a friend for once. But even this came to an end once the school year came to a close, and he graduated. On his last night in his dorm, while he was packing up, someone knocked on the door, then scattered off. He quickly opened the door, hoping to see the person, but they had left as fast as they had come. In front of his door was a package; a white small parcel, with a note stuck to the top:

"_I bid you good-bye, Mr. Holmes. It has been quite thrilling to "talk" to you this past year. I leave you a gift which I made myself, in honour of your graduation. I hope I taught you some valuable lessons this year, Mr. Holmes, I do hope you remember them. _

_I'll be seeing you in the future, but you won't know it's me. At least not until it's too late._

_Good-bye for now, Sherlock Holmes. _

_**S**__ "_

The note was signed "S". How curious, they had decided to reveal part of their identity. He ripped the parcel open after having examined every inch for some evidence. A blue, knitted scarf was folded up in the parcel. How comfy, he thought. He re-read the letter countless times, keeping it with him until 3 years ago, when he finally found out who it was from. He always wore it, reminding him countless times what lessons this person had taught him, and how they had somewhat comforted him when he felt quite alone. Then 4 years ago he comes across Jim Moriarty, and a little over 3 years ago Moriarty and Sherlock have a "chat" and he says something that makes him realize who had been that mystery person all these years.

"I'm practically Mr. Sex." He says grinning, and Sherlock knew he saw Moriarty quickly glance at the scarf then glance away.

Mr. Sex… S… There had to be a connection. Then on the rooftop, when Moriarty thought he had Sherlock, and thought Sherlock was going to kill himself in front of him, he remembers the letter:

"_I'll be seeing you in the future, but you won't know it's me. At least not until it's too late."_

Impossible, he thought. If he was right, which he obviously was, Moriarty had been planning his death since then, and he had been plotting since then. He had taught him things, helped him out, been friendly and Sherlock had met his match. He thought that person had been his lost twin at some points. The on the roof, when they both come to realize they ARE each other, they ARE alike, he knew it was him.

He grinned at the scarf, his only real rival; dead. He still kept it on order to remind himself how Moriarty had planned, plotted and failed all because he had taught Sherlock one thing:

"_Always have the advantage Mr. Holmes. Always be ahead of your opponent. Study how they think, and act accordingly. One day it can save your life. Don't just show off your deducting skills. Exercise them."_

And that is what he did. A ring at the door broke his thoughts.


	12. Chapter 12

"Who the bloody hell is ringing by here? Don't they know no one lives here anymore?!"

Sherlock was beyond frustrated. First John's incessant calling and now this fool who was ringing by an empty flat (or rather available flat as the sign outside read). He refused to get up and answer hoping the idiot would go away after seeing, or imagining no one is in. Only a fool wouldn't notice the sign on the front door downstairs which clearly states that this flat is available for rent.

Sherlock heard someone throw open the door and march up the stairs and come knocking on the front door. How the bloody hell did they get into the flat?! Sherlock still refused to budge, thinking that whoever got in would finally see that no one was in.

"Sherlock! Open this bloody door or I'll kick it open!" Yelled a voice from behind the door.

"John?!" Sherlock said, rather surprised, as he bolted up from his lying position into a sitting one.

What was John doing here? How did he know he was here? Sherlock never took John for that kind of smart man who would be able to guess the whereabouts of him. Sherlock imagined he must be getting predictable and must change that effective immediately. Sherlock heard the voice yell again.

"Sherlock! I know you're in there! Open up! I need to talk to you, ok? It's about what I said the other day."

John sounded desperate more than anything. Sherlock was still angry, but seeing as it was John he reluctantly went and opened up the door, not meeting John's eyes, he turned his back and went to sit back down on the sofa, making sure not to look at John.

"Are you still wearing your bloody coat?" John says in amazement as he closes the door behind him.

John removes his coat only to feel a horrible chill down his spine.

"Ah. Yes, uhm, smart idea keeping your coat on in here…" He blushes at his stupid remark.

"How did you know where I was?" Sherlock snaps, giving John a murderous look before looking away again.

"Worried you're becoming predictable?" John smiles at Sherlock, who couldn't help but smile out of the corner of his mouth. John always made him feel silly over such things.

"Ugh, Sherlock it was very simple. Whenever I feel sad or hurt I want to go home to Mary and be there with her. I want to go _home_." John says while moving to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa.

"This isn't my home. I don't live here anymore." Sherlock answers quite coldly.

"You don't have to live somewhere for it to be home. You may not live here anymore, but its home to you. It's home to me too, but since you'd been gone, I had to make myself a new home as to not feel an ache in my heart over anything anymore. You didn't make yourself a new home. This had been your home since the day we both came here and you showed me the flat."

Sherlock is unresponsive, though in his head, all he was thinking about was how right John was. 221B was home; always has been since he showed John the flat and _knew_ he would take it.

"You may be smarter than the whole country put together, you may be more observant than a thousand suspicious woman, but you are no different from the rest of us when you feel truly hurt about something and you want to go to a welcoming place, somewhere that makes you feel safe. Home is that place for us all. 221B is that place for you."

John puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder; an attempt at reconciliation and comfort for Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't respond, but feels warmth from this gesture. He knew John was right; he just refused to admit it.

"What made you think I was hurt?" Sherlock kept his usual, arrogant tone.

"Do you really think me that stupid? Ha! Sherlock, I saw the look in your eyes yesterday as I made that idiotic remark. You can't hide things like that so easily, especially when it really hurts you."

"I haven't the faintest what you are on about, John. I'm too smart, to complex, to allow such foolish remarks get to my head." He says in a matter-of-fact manner.

"Yes, yes. That's true. But you do let it get to your head when I say it."

"What makes you think that?" Sherlock snaps, again.

"Because what I say always matters to you, Sherlock. I know that after the countless times I've said something to you and you actually took it to heart. A rare thing for a man with such a cold, beating heart. You may have a frozen heart, but sometimes I feel as though I'm the only one who can warm it."

John keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock's head, waiting for him to turn his head and look at him. Sherlock doesn't turn to look at him, but his posture and attitude somehow relaxes and is less tense; less hostile. John continues.

"Look, Sherlock, I know what I said yesterday was very mean. I didn't want to hurt you. I said that because it was how I felt at the time. The way you keep your emotions so well hidden, and keep yourself so well composed, it gets to people, it gets to me. The way you always keep everything to you and expect everyone to catch on is damn innerving. When I realized you had a good reason for having kept me out of the loop of your fake death, I felt so guilty. I thought you had wanted to forget about me; push me out of your life. I had begun to loathe the way you made me feel, and I had almost begun to loathe you. I had racked my brains trying to figure out why you left me out. I just felt so guilty for having had such hateful thoughts towards you at some point, when in reality you did it all with such good reason I…"

John stopped. He was making himself sound like a fool.

"Continue" He heard Sherlock say, rather numbly but, still. He was getting somewhere.

"How can I put this? All this time I had been thinking about how you helped me when I was feeling so unbelievably low, but I had never stopped to think about how I might have helped you, Sherlock. When you told me what you told me, you made me see how I had helped you. I actually mattered to someone. I had thought I didn't mean anything to you, and all that time I had lived under the illusion that you don't care because of the way you hid your emotions so well. Little did I know I helped a troubled soul named Sherlock Holmes. I helped him become a more emotional person and I meant so much to this soul that he was afraid to come to me because he thought he would lose me forever and then he wouldn't be able to live with himself. He thought it better to make me angry with him rather than have me forget him because he had made me feel so hurt. Sherlock Holmes; a man who has no concept on emotions and social rules, tried to save my soul as I had tried to save his. A man with no soul they say; a man with more soul than anyone I have ever met in my opinion. Sherlock, you didn't have to protect me from anything or worry about anything. You saved my soul when you let me into your life, and it looks like I somehow saved yours by letting you into my life. I said it's no wonder you have no friends because you make everyone feel like a total prat. The only reason I didn't walk off is because you made me feel like a prat while at the same time, making me feel like a person wanted in the world, which before then, I hadn't felt. All the women I knew left me because I would be so forgetful and after the war my friends avoided me because of my PTSD. No one wanted to date me because of it either. Then I met you, who didn't seem to care, and more than that you helped me so much, Sherlock. You may not have any friends, Sherlock, but you have me. And I have you. I have Mary now, but we'll always have each other. You don't need more than one friend as long as they make you feel wanted and make you feel whole. You are that friend of mine. And I'm without a doubt that friend of yours. You have no other friends because they cannot handle the fact that they are a complete prat compared to you. Ha, what a pair we are; the two men who saved each other's souls and the two men who broke each other's souls and then, mended it again."

Sherlock turned to look at John, who was still facing his head.

"What makes you think I have a soul at all?" He hissed, hiding his emotion.

"You may the cruelest bastard I know, but a man with no soul wouldn't have done what you did to save me, or save Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson. A man with no soul would have let us die. He would have let me suffer. But you didn't. You saved us, you saved me. You have a complicated soul, a hard-to-reach soul but that doesn't mean you don't have soul, it doesn't mean you don't have a heart. Sherlock, I have said this before and I'll say it a million times over; you are the bravest and most amazing man I've had the pleasure of knowing. I respect you so much and it is such an honour to be your friend." Sherlock and turned sitting, facing him, and John grabbed both his shoulders. "You have the biggest heart I've ever known. You are the best man I have ever known. My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, I raise your name up to the tallest mountain and place it there, where it belongs. You saved me, and I owe you so much."

Sherlock spoke in response. "John, the greatest man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. You saved my soul and you owe me nothing." John's arms dropped in surprise to this, and Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders now. "It's just you and me against the world, John. It's always going to be that way for me, and even Mary can join in, because you believe in her, so I believe in her. I'm sorry for what I put you through, and I'm the one who owes you. My best friend, John H. Watson, I raise your name up to the tallest mountain and place it there where it belongs; next to mine, as we face the world together. You saved me, and I owe you so much."

Sherlock stands up, pulling the dumbfounded John up with him. With his hands still on John's shoulders he says, "John, forgive me. I did what I did, and I want us to be a team again. Just you and me against the world, feeling the blood pump through your veins as we tread on through the crimes of this world."

John wipes away a tear. "Sherlock…." His tone is rather grave, which worries Sherlock. Then John does something that he had never done; he hugs Sherlock.

Sherlock hadn't been hugged much his entire life. It felt… Nice. He felt so wanted. He hugged John back and they embraced each other in forgiveness, practically crushing the air out of each other. Sherlock was so happy in that moment; he felt so wanted. He thought that maybe human contact wasn't all that bad, and John made him feel comforted.

John felt Sherlock tighten around him as they embraced each other. He smiled knowing Sherlock hadn't been hugged much, and this felt nice for him. John quietly said into Sherlock's ear:

"Just you and me against the world once again."

They pulled away, Sherlock more reluctantly, and they smiled at each other as they knew that it's over. The pain that John had was gone, the pain that Sherlock had, had faded away. John no longer felt abandoned and Sherlock no longer felt alone. They were once again Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, consulting detective and doctor solving crimes again.

A few days later, while Sherlock was moving his stuff back into 221B, with Mrs. Hudson beaming in the corner of the room, John walks in and Sherlock smiles at him; it felt so good not to be alone anymore. He saw John had a parcel in his hand, which appeared to have a piece of clothing in it.

"I have something for you, Sherlock."

He goes to hand the parcel to Sherlock, who quickly tears it open to find himself staring at a new blue knitted scarf.

"What's this?" He says looking astonished at John.

"A new start, Sherlock. I don't know what significance that old, tattered scarf of yours holds, but it must have some heavy emotional attachment to it. I'm giving this to you so you can get rid of it and start a new with the feelings we had a few days ago."

He smiles at Sherlock. Sherlock smiles back. He looks at his old scarf hanging on the coat hanger by the door; the chapter of him and Moriarty was finished in his book, Sherlock thought. It was over, and it no longer loomed over him, maybe it was time for a change. He smiles at John.

"Follow me." He grins at John, as he grabs his old scarf and his new one and heads downstairs. John follows.

They end up downstairs on the street; the day was horribly windy as the wind attempted to blow their clothes off, he watched Sherlock take his old scarf and put his hand out with it, watching the wind try to snatch it out of his hand, and Sherlock let the wind win. He let it go and watched it as the wind carried it down the street until it was gone. He turned to John, wind blowing into his dark curls; he puts on his new scarf and smiles to John.

"A new beginning with and old friend."

"A new beginning with an old friend." Repeats John.

"Care to help me unpack, John?" Sherlock warmly smiles at John.

"Oh god, yes." He says, smiling at Sherlock knowing he would remember that's the answer he gave to Sherlock before they set off on their first case together. Then off they both went, upstairs, to start on, once again, as they did before.


End file.
